#but he also CLEARLY is not mentally fit to keep going and as much as i hate him it does make me sad to see his spiral | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

carmenized-onions · 6 months ago

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Pretty. | Bolting Down Booths

logline; locking down chairs and a sweaty sleep deprived man (for now) (for the night) (platonically) (for now) (what?) (I didn't say anything).

series history, this is the third; First, Second

portion; 4.5k+

possible allergies; Negative self-talk (baby, Tony's mentally ill, get WITH it). We are once again, eatin' meat (beef!). Did I give the reader a curly girl routine? ....Perhaps...

pairing; Carmen 'Carmy' Berzatto & Fem Reader (No pronouns, but 'girl' is thrown around quite a bit.)

is this entire series just a love letter to me wanting to take care of this guy? maybe so. maybe so.

Lifesaver. Lifesaver. Lifesaver.

Alright, fuck, you need to put on something to listen to because the thought isn’t leaving and the cherry lifesaver swirling in your mouth is so ironic that it’s leaving a bitter taste.

It’s after hours at The Bear, just after midnight, and you’ve returned to a clinically cleaned restaurant, ‘Ah… Syd keeps it locked in.’ and you’re thankful that you’re alone because it means everyone’s getting their proper rest. However, it also means your intrusive thoughts are really drilling in tonight.

You drop your phone on one of the booth tables, blasting music at full volume. That’s better. Little more static to work with now. You measure each booth and table for the third time tonight, rechecking that the angles are exactly as Syd had asked. They’re still perfect. Alright, get a move on, it’s not gonna somehow get more correct than correct…

You slip yourself under the table, verifying that the bolts are the proper fit— Also for the third time today. Hey, what if Home Depot fucked you earlier?! It’s important to check! You’re definitely not unreasonably anxious right now! But your power drill is practically screaming to be used at this point, so you acquiesce.

You’re on the last bolt when you hear a click of the front door opening.

“Fuck!” It scares you so shitless you jump and knock the top of your head on the table. You lay down quickly, back pressed to the floor to get a look at the perp. You point your power drill menacingly toward the front door.

Oh.

“Fuck are you doing here?” You and Carmen manage to speak in perfect unison.

There’s a beat before you opt to go first.

“Bolting.” Still lying under the table. You raise your drill upward, revving it a few times.

He swallows, sniffs, and scratches his nose. “Thought you were doing that tomorrow?”

“Technically it is tomorrow.” He scoffs, so you continue. “No, uh, Nat asked if I could come in after hours so I’m not as much of an active tripping hazard.” You gesture to yourself on the floor.

“Smart.” He rubs his eyes. He looks red and pink all over.

“…Thought you were getting off early today?”

“I did.” He clears his throat when you make a face about it. “I—I uh, did leave early, I just, just thought I’d come in and uh… Do some work.”

He rubs the back of his neck, continuing after a beat. “I’m, I’m uh, I’m good— In, in the kitchen.”

You chew at your inner cheek, staring at a very clearly distressed Carmy. His eyes are lined red, hair is in disarray.

“…Did you do it?” Did you break up with your girlfriend?

“…Yeah. I-I did.”

You just nod, thoughtful, before slipping back under the table, finishing drilling in the last bolt. “If you need a palate tester, lemme know.”

“Heard.”

The moment is soft but then cut short by you scrambling to quiet your phone atop your table when a perfectly unfitting upbeat song starts to sing out at max volume. He hides his smile poorly as he heads into the kitchen.

It’s a nice hour or so, in the front of house. You drill each bolt efficiently, grounding each booth and table in their place permanently. Your tunes play at a much lower volume now, careful to not alert the lone chef in the back. The intrusive thoughts have vanished with Carmen around, even if distant. He might not consider himself a brightening presence, but to you, he certainly is a nice lamp.

You stand up finally, finished, doing a big stretch of your arms and a crack of your back. You notice Carmen looking at you through the glass. He looks away, then back again, raising a hand, motioning for you to come in. Looks like you finished right on time.

It smells fucking incredible in here. You’re once again trying to temper your reaction as you pass through the door, not wanting to stroke his ego, but he’s already clocked it. It’s okay, you clock his boyish smirk of pride before he hides it with his hand, so you’re even.

On the steel table, plated— On their one black plate, because he’s not over having to settle for less— Are three perfectly cubed and seared pieces of marbled meat, glazed mushrooms, and some round breaded things that you’re not quite sure about. All perfectly plated and decorated with greens, parsley, specifically.

You step next to him, staring at the plate intently, taking it in visually. “Well?”

He hums in a way that sounds like a laugh, arms crossed. He stares at his own plate just as intently. “Pan-seared Wagyu— Sirloin. Wild mushrooms, basted in the same fat. Hazelnut-potato croquettes—”

“What the fuck is that?”

He doesn’t miss a beat, he just smiles— In a way that looks actually kind of genuine. He likes to teach. “Seasoned mashed potatoes, basically. Breaded with bread crumbs and hazelnut, in this case, and fried. There’s a gruyere center, to this one.”

You don’t miss the fact that he’s not stuttering anymore. He’s right. He’s good in the kitchen. In all the ways that entails.

“Test?” He lifts a fork to you. You take it.

You lean forward, elbow on the table. You take polite, small cuts of each part of the meal initially, it feels bad to destroy what is an art piece.

But then he leans forward, head meeting your level, amusement lilting his voice. “You know it’s a compliment to eat?”

You huff, taking a larger piece of everything to get it all in one bite. Everything is so soft and lush that you don’t need a knife. Goddamn. You take your bite. Son of a bitch.

You thought fucking brisket was good?

“Oh my god.” You put your hand in front of your mouth as you chew, switching your gaze to him. “Carmen, oh my fucking god!”

“Yeah?” His glow is slowly coming back to him, like a flickering halo. “Don’t pull punches.”

“Fuckin’— So good! What is it, fire? Excellent? What’s the top one? I’m angry that it’s this good.”

“Angry is a new one.”

“I’m furious!” You laugh, “I always thought luxury dining was fuckin’ scam, I’m not gonna lie to you. But I— I took one bite and I’m incredibly full and— And, it’s just— It’s really really good, Carm—Chef. Gotta show it to Syd for the menu.”

He nods, smiling, finally, unhidden. “Thank you, Chef.”

He grabs the fork from you to try for himself, but before he can get to his own plate, you press the back of your hand to his chest, holding him back. “Uh, ah, can I do a thing, for you?”

He squints, curiously, putting his fork down. “…Yes?”

You grin, walking around the kitchen the second he affirms it. “Where’s your wine box?”

“Ah… By expo, over…” He points to it.

You pop it open, hand waving over each bottle for the right one you’re searching for. “I’ll pay for it.”

“S’fine.”

A young Pinot Grigio, you go with. Ripe, sweet, airy. You walk by him again, grazing your hand on the small of his back and placing the bottle in front of him. “Open, don’t pour.”

“Heard.” He roots away for the bottle opener.

“And get me a clean knife and cutting board!”

“Fuck are you doin?” He doesn’t complain, getting what you ask for, but he is quite curious.

You sort through the fruit pantry in Marcus’ section, grabbing the most perfect white peach you can— It wouldn’t be perfect by morning, he won’t mind. “I am an occasional bartender and poor man’s sommelier…”

You meet him back at his station, slicing the peach thinly with the knife he’s left for you. “So, when I’m given the chance to pair a meal, I try to.”

You halve the thin slices, then place a few in each glass Carmen’s so kindly set out for you— Tulip bowled cups. You whistle, “You know your shit…”

His eyes light up, just a bit. He shrugs, handing you the uncorked bottle when you reach for it. “My job.”

“You’re good at it.” You pour the wine, proper— No stops missed for Carmen. “Okay, okay, okay…”

You hand him his glass— The one you think you did a slightly better peach placement on. “Alright, now you can have the dish you worked hard on.”

With a small smile, he takes a generous bite of his dish, takes his time digesting it, then sips your wine. He tilts his head, surprised by how much of a liking he’s taking to it. “S’fire. Well worth it.”

You sip your own glass, smiling, you explain before he can ask you to. “Yeah? Good. Citrusy white to cut the fat of wagyu. Or something. Poor man’s sommelier, y’know.”

“Hm.” He sniffs, and you try not to light up when he writes down the wine pairing at the bottom of his drafted recipe card. “Better than me.”

There’s a comfortable silence before he speaks up again. “You gonna head out?”

You squint at him, head tilted. “Are you?”

Once you know one Berzatto, you’ve known them all. Their tells included.

“…Eventually, yeah.”

“You drive?”

“I take the L.”

“Are you on the red or blue line?”

He doesn’t answer. So, that tells you he’s not on the only two 24-hour lines.

“…I’ll take a transfer—”

“When were you planning on going?” You cross your arms; he can tell where this is going and he hates it. You’re foiling his plan.

“When I’m done.”

“Done what?”

“…Cleaning.”

“I’ll help you,” You pick up the cutting board and knife swiftly. “I’ll give you a ride home.”

“I need to get work done—Too.” He takes a while to reply, but when he does, he speaks with haste.

You pause, putting the cutting board down. Let’s do the math here.

He said he came in ‘early’ this morning, but ‘early’ probably meant overnight because of the Fridge Guy. He left early, sure, before the dinner rush— But only to experience his first breakup—If you can call it that. Then he’s come back at midnight again, after everyone else has left. The likelihood he’s slept since the night before his opening isn’t impossible, but if he did sleep, he slept here. And he definitely hasn’t showered. He’s likely been awake 40 hours.

You nod, picking up the board again, walking it to the sink. You stand over it in thought.

“What’s wrong with home, Carm?”

“It’s gonna hit, if I go home.”

He swallows, “Everything’s gonna hit, when I go home.”

Now that you can understand. You nod, scrubbing the cutting board clean. “When your brother died, I holed up at my parents’ for two weeks.”

You don’t turn off the sink, even after you're done cleaning, because if you do, you fear he will hear your tell-tale heartbeat. “When I came back, my plants were half dead and my fridge was a biohazard.”

He sniffs, he’s waiting for the shoe to drop, for you to tell him he has to go home, that it only gets worse if you wait it out, that he needs to find a better way to deal with this—

“You can hole up at mine.”

When he doesn’t reply, you turn your head to look at him. He’s very hard to read but it looks like he’s entertaining the idea. You add, for the sake of levity, “You need a fuckin’ shower, man.”

He smirks, though the amusement doesn’t meet his eyes. “When I shower all my fuckin’ hairs gonna fall out.” He piles his dirtied utensils and boards, sidling up to the sink next to you.

“You need rosemary water.” You grab a dish rag, switching over to dry for him.

“Does that shit actually work?” You both quickly ebb into the domestic flow of handing off dishes. He mumbles ‘left-most drawer’, ‘top-shelf, right side’, and so on whenever you’re confused about where they go once they’re dry.

“It does. I have also had the ‘am I balding?’ crisis. Believe it or not.”

He stares at your hairline so intently you put your hand in front of it, flustered. He finally flicks his gaze back to yours. “If you’re really worried, you can make it pretty easy—”

“I’ll stay over.”

You take a second to register, then nod happily.

“Good. Where’s the black plate go?”

Your apartment is surprising because it’s built on top of an H&R Block, the concrete stairs leading up to it are chipped to hell, and the front door has clearly been graffitied then painted over then graffitied then painted over then graf—

And yet, it is almost certainly one of the best-looking apartments he’s seen in Chicago— On the inside at least.

None of the furniture matches, but it’s nice, it’s eclectic. It’s heavily thrifted and upcycled from furniture you found on the side of the road. That’s the nice thing, about being a fixer—Nothing’s trash if you believe in yourself. You drop your keys in a handmade clay tray— That’s the other thing Carm notices, so much of this is you alone.

The place is a mess, there’s half-finished projects in the corner of every room, tools strewn in odd places. And it’s perfectly welcoming. Warm. In a literal sense, too, because there’s a humidifier going off on a timer in the living room to make what Carmen estimates are your forty thousand plants and cuttings happy.

This is a perfect apartment because you live in it.

Nothing can hit, in here.

He comes back to reality when you reach your hand out to him, there’s a coat hanger in your other hand. Oh. Jacket.

“Oh, fuck.” He peels off his jacket, handing it to you. “I uh, I left your Carhartt at work.”

“S’fine, if I was in a rush for it back, I would’ve asked.” You brush off easily, hanging up the jean jacket in your small coat closet. “Ah…”

Your apartment has a pretty open layout, but you point at everything regardless.

“There’s the kitchen…” It’s on the right at the entry, with an open archway— Which you’re in the middle of rounding the corners on with plywood.

“The living room…” Straight ahead, he can see the half of it that isn’t blocked by the kitchen. You’ve got big windows, with a fire escape. Suncatchers and more plants are hanging from the ceiling by it.

“To the left, down the hall— The only hall, bathrooms on the right and straight ahead is the bedroom, you can put your shit there.”

His brows furrow, you say the last part quickly, and he’s going to say something but you grab the black plate he’s brought and brush past him to the kitchen.

So, he just shrugs off his backpack, “Heard.” And heads down the hall. For now.

It feels odd to put this very fancy, very expensive one black plate on top of the rest of your own cheap dishware— But he insisted you take it, so, here it is.

You march down the hall, going to grab towels for him from your room, but stop short when you hear him in the bathroom, mumbling, “Fuck is this?”

You peek in, “Fuck is what?” You come in when he turns the bottle in his hand for you to look at. You stare at it for a solid few seconds, genuinely alarmed, you look at Carmen with wide eyes.

“Carmy, look me in my eyes and tell me you know what conditioner is.”

“I—I know what conditioner is, but what are all the words for?”

“All the words?”

“Like, strengthening, bonding, texture—”

“Carmen?!”

“Don’t say my name like that…”

“You have wavy hair, too, Bear!” You stare wide-eyed, mouth in an open-mouth smile because if you don’t laugh you’ll start screaming. You swipe away the hair in front of his face, holding the tress between your fingers to get an idea of texture. You’re too focused to clock the way he flinches— At the nickname and the touch.

“We’ve got like, the same hair texture! What the fuck are you using?”

He doesn’t answer, he opens his mouth but nothing comes out.

“Carmen…” You can make a pretty good guess. He bristles again. He has discovered does not like it when you say his name with any sort of animosity or disappointment.

“Carmen no… Two in One?”

“…Five in One.”

“Five in One?!” You clutch the sides of your head. “What are the Five?!”

He waves his hands in defense, “It’s—”

“Y’know what, don’t fuckin’ tell me, I don’t wanna know, I don’t need to know.” You cover your face and shake your head. “Just— I will get you clothes and a towel, wash—” You reach into your shower, grabbing your fruity body wash. “—Wash yourself with this, like a civilized person— And just don’t— Don’t touch your hair, I’ll take care of your hair after you shower.”

“You’ll take care—”

“You’ve lost your hair privileges; I will be taking up the arms.” You pinch the bridge of your nose, “I just—You need a tutorial, please.”

He holds the body wash in his hand, debating this fight or not, “I think five is—”

“Just fuckin’ say heard.”

“Heard.”

Despite everything, you both laugh. You tap the doorway on your way out, yelling to no one as you turn back down the hall. “Corner!” It’s worth it when he laughs again.

Ironically, the one shirt you know will fit him that you have is ‘The Berf’, so you grab that. Pants are a bit tougher, but with enough scrounging through your closet you find a long-forgotten pair of sweatpants your brother left here ages ago.

You approach the bathroom door, it’s still ajar, so you invite yourself in. He’s staring at your skincare products with a clinical fascination, stopping only to acknowledge your presence.

“Alright, alright.” You pop your pile of things down on the sink counter, handing each thing to him individually.

“New toothbrush.” Still packaged. It’s got your dentist’s address on the clear plastic. “Pyjamas. Towel, wash cloth— I think you’re good.”

When you turn your head to look at him, you catch the tail end of him staring— Again, his eye contact is so soft and also scary. And now that the sleep is catching up to him, he’s half-lidded and— Goddamn it he is very pretty, sonofabitch.

He straightens up, sniffing, nodding as a form of thanks, the likelihood he’s registered anything you’ve said isn’t likely— Which is fine, you are now too flustered to care. There’s a boy in your house and you’ve just discovered he’s pretty.

“I’m just gonna wash my face n’ grab a few things and I’ll be out of your way.”

You wash your hands; he unwraps his toothbrush. And without verbally checking in, you once again flow into a silent rhythm. You grab your toothbrush, dole out toothpaste on both of your brushes, and stare at yourselves and each other in the mirror, side by side as you brush.

You make a face, and while he doesn’t fuckin’ guffaw, he does smile, foam peeking through the corners of his mouth, and that’s enough for you.

You rinse— You try to be dainty about it but it’s not, because when has brushing your teeth ever been dignified?

You pump face cleanser into your palm, then nod to him to do the same. Good Carm, he listens. Like a mime tutorial, he follows your actions of foaming it in the hands and properly washing his face. There’s hope for this five in one boy yet.

You pile together your skincare and leave him to shower in peace. More importantly, leave to let yourself lose it in peace.

Oh my god there’s a pretty boy in your bathroom and it’s two in the morning. What the fuck were you thinking? You just invited him over without hesitation? You met him like barely two days ago! Oh my god! There’s a pretty boy in your bathroom! And it’s two! In the morning!

You need to kill the teenage girl in your head because she’s freaking you the fuck out. You were literally being so calm and chill and cool and cool and chill and calm— Oh my god you’re doing it again—

Everything is fine. He’s literally here because he’s experiencing a torrential downpour of awful. You invited him over because you’d invite anyone like that over. Pretty or not. Get your head in order.

You take a deep, mindful breath and exhale, returning to neutral as you meditatively go through your skincare routine and change into your nice pajamas— Y’know, the one modest matching set for when you have guests or go somewhere. Instead of the one usual incredibly stained oversized t-shirt.

You set up a chair by your kitchen sink, towel on the back for comfort. You were serious about the hair thing. Your scalp and his are curly girl sisters, you cannot leave them to die like this.

When he comes out, knots in his back undone, steam wafting, grime finally removed, he approaches you with much more energy, and leans against the doorway. You both speak at once.

“Weird to see you out of uniform.”

You snort; he flattens his mouth into a line to keep from smiling too hard (which, for Carmen, would really just mean smiling with his teeth). But really, it is weird. You’re both suddenly… People. You can see all his tattoos and his stupid gold chain...And he can see you.

You kick the chair with your foot, gesturing to it. “Sit, I’m washing your hair.”

You’re walking past him before he’s got the chance to deny, collecting proper products from the bathroom to use. Y’know. Not fucking five in one.

Once again, good Carm listens, sitting in the chair. Not without complaints, though. “Big fan of babying people?”

You wrap the towel behind his neck, tilting his head back into the sink. If you pretend, it’s like a salon. You hum in reply, blunt, “Yeah, I am.”

“I like to take care of people. In a way, it’s kind of my job.” You re-rinse his hair once the water is warm— Thank God your kitchen faucet is a sprayer.

“You’re good at it.” He’s too comfortable and lethargic to be aggro about this, so he’s just sweet and honest. It’s hard not to beam.

“I try.” You massage shampoo through his scalp, “I know I’m pushy about it, sometimes.”

He sighs, a breath of relief. When’s the last time someone else washed his hair? He’s been cutting his own for years, he cannot remember the last time. Had to have been before New York.

“Were you pushy with Mikey?” He’s not fully sure why he said that, and he’s waiting for you to make him regret asking it.

You just hum, nostalgically amused, “I think I got pushy because of Mikey.”

“Stopped hoping my friends would take care of themselves with the right tools and decided to just take care of them myself.” You rinse the bubbles from his hair. You’re happy to see his wavy pattern returning.

“A lot of work.”

“Not to me.”

You pump conditioner into your hand— And while he’d probably love for you to elaborate on that point, you have to pivot, “Alright, this part you actually should pay attention to— When you condition— Because you will be conditioning, from this point on.”

He just grunts in reply, but it sounds like enough of a yes to you.

“—When you do it, you’ll hang your head upside down and apply conditioner from the bottom— You gotta like, squeeze your hair in it—” You do the proper routine, squelching his hair, does he laugh at the sound? Yes. Yes, he does. “It’ll sound like that. And then rinse.”

You look at his peaceful, amused expression. His eyes closed. “Heard.”

“Are you retaining any of this?”

“I said heard, didn’t I?”

You just scoff, rinsing his hair. You teach him how to scrunch with the towel, but his eyes are so dazed during it you give the poor boy a break and don’t explain that what you’re putting in his hair is mousse. He might have an aneurysm if you use a ‘food word’ in relation to hair right now.

“Alright, alright, the exhaustion is setting in, let’s get you to bed before you start seeing spiders.” You take his arm and hoist him up. Everything is fine until this bozo tries walking to the living room while you’re trying to pull him down the hall. You once again, speak in sync.

“What’re you doing?”

“I’m taking the couch.”

He now realizes why you spoke so quickly about him putting his things away in your room instead of the living room. It’s like you just awoke every Italian ancestor in his bones because he is immediately alert.

“No, you’re not.”

That’s fine because he’s in your household, motherfucker. Your family tree is in the furniture.

“You’re the guest. You take the bed.”

“You’re the host. You take the bed.”

“I’m the one that invited you.”

“And what? You’re the girl.”

At a point, you are both speaking with your hands, words tumbling on top of each other's.

“Bitch—” “It’s just not right—” “I literally made you come over specifically to get proper rest—” “I will be haunted all night by my Nonna if you sleep on the couch—” “The couch is a pull-out, it’s comfortable!” “Then let me use it!” “No!”

This is going nowhere fast.

“My own grandmother takes the couch when I visit. She would throw me off my own balcony if I made a guest take the couch.” Is your hard stance.

And his, “My Nonno would stab me if I let a pretty girl sleep on a couch.”

Now this does immediately shut you the fuck up.

That doesn’t mean he’s won; he’s also shut the fuck up. A slip-up of mutually assured destruction.

You bite back your wheeze of shocked laughter, and you’re very thankful it’s two in the morning now because the moonlight through the window doesn’t entirely catch your reaction of being embarrassingly bashful in this moment. How did the teen girl in you survive? You were so sure you got her…

Your hands hang in the air for a moment, before you finally manage to say, “Either I take the couch—”

“No—”

“Or, it’s a double, so we share it.” You shrug, wringing your hands, “So whichever one you find the least sacrilege.”

God, there’s no simple way to make that not sound like you’re coming onto him, is there? You’re not, for the record. It’s just the fastest solution. You’ve shared beds before, it’s not a big deal— It’s actually only a big deal if you make it one, it’s actually very normal—Get this fucking teen out of here—!

“Fuckin’— Alright!” He huffs after thinking on it for some time, rubbing his forehead in some sort of anguish before marching down the hall.

When you don’t follow, he clicks his teeth. “C’mon, Tony.” His tone is languid and aggravated.

Ah, the sweet sound of a man who has had to compromise— But will be damned if he doesn’t get his part of said compromise. Also the sound of a man who really wishes he hadn't just said pretty girl.

You follow him to your room. Fuck it. Say the thing. You've been trying to keep a level social playing field with him anyway.

“Heard, pretty boy!"

two idiots realize the other one is pretty and nice and try to not acknowledge it (DIFFICULTY LEVEL: IMPOSSIBLE)

Would you believe me if I said I was trying to not do the 'one bed' trope? I really was! I'm not a huge trope guy! But writing it down I was like 'neither of these people would fucking fold'. The only other option would be for both of them to stare at each other in the hallway for 8 hours and come to no agreement. Did not plan Pretty Girl but thank god because it was the only thing that would get them out of that time loop.

It's always my favourite thing when a person who's been cavalier when it comes to boundaries suddenly finds their line (he's pretty) and is now immediately so hyphy. I hope you also messed with this.

Tell me your thoughts!! Favourite bits, lines, etc!! Feeds me!! (Oh, speaking of fed, shout out to Daniel NYC, I did steal their menu for this. I'll probably do it again because I am not a Michelin Star Chef.)

Next Part

#carmen berzatto imagine #carmy berzatto #carmy x reader #carmen berzatto x reader #carmen x reader #carmen berzatto x you #carmen berzatto #carmy the bear #the bear fx #the bear x you #the bear fanfiction #the bear x reader #the bear

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gatorbites-imagines · 16 days ago

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Kinktober day 26

Conner Kent + Shower Sex

This is a part 2 kinda of the Conner prompt from last year, which you can read here. Ive been extremely busy these past few days, so I haven’t had much time to write. Hope it’s still enjoyable though. Atlantean reader yippee.

2024 kinktober masterlist

Luckily after getting you back to a more present mental state, and after milking Conner like the bull he was, the two of you finally wrapped up the mission for now. You would have to share why the mission was cut short, but you both silently agreed not to share the exact details of what had happened.

The two of you were close enough to where you lived that you could fly there, with you being carried in Conners arms since you still felt quite weak. You could feel Conner shuddering the entire time, his pupils still blown wide as you caught him inhaling your scent every now and then. It shouldn’t have shocked you that he was still hard, even after all that, being kryptonian and all.

You lived away from most people, in a comfortably big home made by your mother and father and with the assistance of your extended family, giving your home clear inspiration from their different cultures. Of course, the home was very close to the ocean, on a private island that left you two by yourselves.

Conner seemed to hesitate at the door as you started pulling your cum soaked armour off, throwing it to the ground to clean later, since getting all that spend of his out of it would be a longer process. He may have just covered you in so much of his own spend, but seeing you strip naked got him flustered.

With a goodnatured roll of your eyes, you gave the front of his suit a pull with your mental powers, just to get him to snap out of that flushed state hed put himself in. With a “come hither” motion of your finger, you made your way into your bathroom.

It was a very large bathroom, with a built-in pool that could fit a couple of people. It wasn’t really a pool made for swimming, it was more the type you sat in to just cool down from the day. There was a shower too obviously, one you turned on and stepped into.

Conner finally seemed to have caught up, the half kryptonian stumbling over his own feet as he kicked off what remained of his suit as he grabbed onto the doorway, his eyes looking as hungry as back in the cave, if not more. Little seemed to be needed to get blood pumping for Conner, as he was still so hard.

“How many rounds can you even go” you snickered, giving his hard dick a small tap as Conner stepped up behind you, the kryptonian jolting and groaning as his almost painful looking hard-on twitched from the small touch.

Your time together in the cave had left you wrung out in your own way. You were half hard, but it wasn’t enough for you to grab at it and jerk it into fullness. Instead, you just turned around to face Conner and wrap both your hands around his drooling length. The noises he let out sounded almost painful, Conner placing his hands on either side of you against the wall behind you.

Conner groaned, bucking his hips in short quick movements, his head ducking down to press his face against your neck. You could feel his tongue lapping at your skin, Conner huffing at the scent you carried, a strong mixture of your sweat and musk from being out in the desert, but also the thick layer of his own cum, it was driving him mad.

“Woah there, calm down” you laughed out, shocked at Conners sudden desperate huffing and licking, his tongue and lips exploring down your chest to try and lick up all the taste on your skin before the water of the shower washed it all away.

You almost jumped as he came, spilling all over your abdomen, still shocked at just how much he could make in one go, and the fact that Conner kept rocking his hips desperately for more. There would be no surprise if Conner wanted to stand here for hours, just milking himself with your hands and licking at your skin since his libido clearly could keep up with that, but even you had limits.

After getting covered in at least three more loads, and having Conner licking and huffing at your armpit, you decided enough was enough. Even if his needy whines and hungry whimpers made you almost reconsider, but you truly needed a shower.

In the end, you settled with letting Conner grind up against you as you scrubbed yourself, and him, clean. He didn’t even seem to care about the small jokes you made about him being a dog, Conner instead giving a small breathless woof in response.

Conner seemed almost to be floating somewhere else as you pulled the two of you out of the shower, your partner, maybe lover? Leaning into your hands as you tried to dry him off with a towel. Normally you liked to float in the pool after a bath, but seeing the look in Conners eyes you decided you two just needed to go down.

And yeah, you knew all the Atlantean jokes, and yeah, you had a waterbed you preferred more. But Conner seemed more comfortable in your actual surface bed, which was covered in breathy yet sturdy fabrics you got from your mother and aunts. Or maybe it was the fact that you mainly used this bed to jerk off and your scent had soaked into it.

At least Conner liked it, as he stuffed his face into the pillows and inhale loudly before settling down. You knew kryptonians made noises that you weren’t able to hear, but you were partly convinced you could hear his purr as you laid down beside him, Conner tucking himself against your side to keep huffing at your now much cleaner chest.

It was… kinda cute in a way. It wasn’t the weirdest thing you’d ever seen or experienced, and you liked Conner too much to let something like this weird you out. You needed to find a way to deal with the fact that he seemed to not have a limit to his libido… but that could wait for another day.

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idkwhatimdoinghere1655 · 11 months ago

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Erm... Sorry? - Lando Norris

"Lando?" You called out after just getting home. Your roommate, Lando, was home for the first time in a while. His job meant that he was away a lot, so it was nice to see him around. Sure, you enjoyed the quiet tranquility, but you missed him.

"In here!" He shouted back as you located him in the living room. You couldn't help the goofy smile that grew across your face when you saw him. You stood near the couch, waiting for him to make a move. "So are you going to give your friend a hug, or are you just going to sit there?" you tutted with a sarcastic roll of your eyes.

"I think I'll just sit here," he stifled back a laugh, looking you up and down. He really did miss you while he was away, more than he'd ever care to admit. Even if he could quite easily afford to live by himself in a much nicer apartment, the two of you had shared this one for years.

You had been friends for nearly as long as you could remember, and your parents had always teased the two of you. They did even more so now that you still lived together, even after your completely different situations and lifestyles.

You were Lando's one normal thing. When he didn't have a normal childhood, with karting, then racing and everything in between, he had one constant thing in his life. You. His one safe space, and his one best friend. And he'd give it all to keep it that way.

"Don't be a dick, Lando," you playfully scoffed, opening your arms out to him. That was all it took for him to lug himself off the couch and wrap his arms around you. "I missed you," he mumbled, but you could only feel the reverberations through your skull, not hear the words.

"So, how was everything?" You asked, letting go of the embrace and sitting down on the couch beside him. "Good, good, very stressful though, to be honest," he nodded. Lando was always honest with you, since you could read him like a book.

"You know, you should just take a night when you're there. No parties or anything, just a quiet night in your hotel room. Or you can call me, whatever suits. Might take the edge off," you told him. Yes, you had told him many times before, but it didn't hurt to rehash it.

"I know, baby, I know," he sighed, leaning his head back and resting it on the back of the couch. You sat there for a moment, mouth open like a goldfish. Baby? you thought to yourself. Lando clearly hadn't noticed what he had said.

"Did you, uhm, did you mean to call me that?" You stuttered, blushing profusely. You thought he could have just been taking the mick, but his lack of a reaction told you otherwise. "Call you what?" He asked, completely oblivious.

"Baby." You said, your eyes flickering up to his face to try and gauge any sort of a reaction. "What? I didn't call you-" he started, but then it clicked. His mind had cast back through the past few sentences, and he just looked at you, dumbfounded.

"I, erm... Sorry? It just kinda... Slipped out," he reasoned, unable to make eye contact with you. You could see he too was also flushed as he ran a hand through his curly locks. You both sat there in uncomfortable silence, neither of you knowing what to say.

"Sorry..." Lando mumbled again, his eyes flashing up to yours and back down to his hands, which he was fidgeting with in his lap. Lando was mentally scolding himself - he couldn't believe he had let that slip.

He had wanted to tease you by calling you an affectionate nickname, but he didn't mean for it to slip out in a genuine manner. It just rolled of his tongue naturally, almost out of habit. He liked the way it sounded when he was talking to you, it fit for him.

"It's OK, it was an accident," you nodded, but it came off more as a fact that you were trying to convince yourself of. "Yeah, an accident, yeah," he confirmed, repeating the word over and over again in his head until he hopefully believed it.

Your heart stopped for a second. You saw that particular glimmer in Lando's eye. The one that told you his was lying to you, but he was trying his best to conceal it. But, you didn't want to push it, things were awkward enough.

On the other hand, Lando was contemplating doing the exact opposite thing. He wanted to push it, arguably, too far. He could tell you had sussed him out, and he should have guessed that lying straight to your face would get him absolutely nowhere.

Without allowing himself a second thought, Lando put his hands on either of your cheeks and pulled you in, close to him. He slightly hesitated when his lips were barely even a millimeter away from yours, before mustering up all of the confidence he possibly had in his body.

He pressed his lips against yours, the tension of the moment melting away for a slight moment, before he pulled away again. "Lando..." you sighed, placing an affectionate hand over one of the ones that were on your cheek.

Lando swiftly retracted his hands away from you. "Sorry, I just-"

"Lando,"

"I know, I know, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have kissed you I just-" Lando frantically rambled, his leg nervously bouncing up and down. "Lando, listen," you softly said, trying to calm him down and get him to think for a second. "No, but I shouldn't have done that after I called you-" He started fumbling again.

You didn't know what else to do, so you tugged him closer to you and stole his lips with yours. "Take a breath for me, yeah? It's OK," you tried to soothe, but you could tell he was very embarrassed by what he had done. "Did you just kiss me?"

"It stopped you needlessly apologising, didn't it?"

"Needlessly? You mean I don't have to say sorry?" He asked, nearly completely gobsmacked. He thought you'd yell at him, maybe make him leave the apartment or leave yourself. "Are you going to keep rambling or are you going to kiss me again?" You asked, looking at him in a way you never had before.

It was the softness of his touch, how tenderly he had kissed you. It left you surprised, but desperate for more. And Lando could happily give you more. "Now that I can do, baby." He smirked, pulling you closer again. But this time you weren't surprised, not in the slightest.

A/N - I want to write, but the lack of motivation and inspiration I have had in, what feels like, the last few months is so frustrating. I wrote this a while back, just never posted it. I'm halfway through a couple requests, they are coming.💖

|masterlist|

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benedictscanvas · 8 months ago

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Your Remus x reader fics have melted my cold, cold heart and now I’m a mess. They’re so soft! And I’m so soft for gentleness! Please write more if you feel like it. Maybe something where reader is exhausted mentally and a wee bit teary, and Remus is his lovely, comforting self. Regardless, all the air kisses for you!!

thank you so so much lovely!! this is one of the most beautiful asks i’ve had in a while. i hope this is what you were looking for, so many air kisses back at you!! this is a continuation of this and this but doesn’t have to be! || remus lupin x fem!reader, 1.4k words, cw pet names and a teary, tired reader

- - -

Remus is not having a good day because it’s abundantly clear to him that you’re not having a good day.

He’s spending the day working at yours, because his wifi is fucked and for once it isn’t just an excuse to spend time with you. Although he supposes he could have turned to Sirius who lives far closer to him than you do, so it’s a bit of an excuse to see you after all.

His wifi is fucked though.

So he sits at your tiny dining room table that can only fit two chairs and spends the day trying not to look at you too much opposite him. He fails miserably, and it’s not usually miserable to look at you but each time he does, you look thoroughly despondent.

“Another cuppa, lovely?”

You startle as you look at him over your laptop like you’d forgotten he was there. You have to blink from your screen and back to him a couple of times before you can finally process what he’d said to you.

“Thank you.”

He slips away to the kitchen, socked feet quiet on wooden floors because now he’s terrified of startling you. It’s 3pm in the afternoon and the third cuppa he’s made you today, but he wonders if he should have made you more. He begged you to stop for lunch multiple times but you very gently argued that you’d just got too much to do today, that he could take whatever he wanted from the fridge.

He should have just made you a sandwich without asking. Now he’ll interfere with your dinner if he does. He’s really struggling to know what to do here. As he carries two fresh cups of tea back to the dining room table, he feels a little bit breathless.

”Tea for the pretty lady,” he flirts, because it usually makes you smile this bashful smile that he really likes. But as he places the cup next to you, he notices your watery eyes just as you turn away to hide them.

“Thank you,” you say quietly, all scratchy. Remus feels like he’s about to cry just looking at you, so he makes an effort to pull himself together as he crouches next to your chair.

”Dove?”

You’re still staring at the wall rather than him. He isn’t going to rush you, though, or force you to look at him if you don’t want to. He’ll stay hovering by your side for as long as you’ll let him, but he places a tentative hand on your shin after a few seconds so you know he’s with you.

When you turn to face him, sniffling, the first tear has fallen. You were clearly holding them in, and it feels like a physical ache in his chest.

”Sorry,” you say through an empty laugh as more tears fall and you hurry to wipe them away. He squeezes your shin for lack of what to do. He is totally helpless, but there’s also this instinct deep within him that kicks in and tells him to do whatever it takes to fix this.

”It’s okay,” he assures gently, “You want to talk about it?”

”I hate crying,” you say instead, looking upwards to try to stop the tears falling again. He takes a second to kneel down rather than crouch, however much his knees hate it, so that he can reach up and wipe your tears himself. The pads of his thumbs swipe across your cheeks and he hopes you feel at least a little loved.

”I know, lovely.”

He doesn’t say much else, because he’s invited you to speak and you will, when you’re ready. He really really doesn’t want to rush you. Another swipe of his thumb removes another traitorous tear. He keeps his other hand as a steady pressure on your shin even though he doesn’t know if that’s even helpful.

”I don’t even know why I’m crying,” you say, another halfhearted laugh accompanied by more tears, “Nothing’s happened. I’ve just got so much on, and so many emails and texts I haven’t replied to and I saw another one pop up on my phone and I just…”

He nods sympathetically as you trail off and immediately bury your face in your hands as the real sobs start. It’s instinct once again that takes over as he strains upwards to put his arms around you as best he can, one over your shoulders and the other bringing your head to his chest. You go willingly.

He presses his forehead to the top of your head and murmurs into your ear.

”Oh, my girl. You’re alright. I’ve got you, you can cry.”

His words seem to make you cry harder and it only makes him pull you in closer, as close as he can.

You apologise yet again after a few minutes and he just strokes your hair and says nothing. He thinks it helps. You begin to calm down after a little while longer, he can feel you try to pull away and he lets you go easily, shifting until he’s kneeling beside you again.

”God, what a mess I’ve made,” you laugh again, a defence mechanism if he’s ever seen one. You wipe the wet patch you’ve left on his shirt in vain and he catches your hand in his. Brave, he thinks.

”None of that,” he insists softly, “This shirt’s all special now. The day you finally let me see you cry, immortalised in the fabric.”

Your laugh is far more genuine this time and he’s very proud of himself.

“Been wanting to see me cry for a while, have you?”

”All my life, dove. I was beginning to think I’d just have to mean to you and get it over with.”

You gasp dramatically, but it’s all for show.

”I don’t think you have it in you, Remus.”

”Maybe not,” he hums wistfully, “Seeing you cry has just now made the top five of things that make me cry. But I’m glad you trusted me with it.

You soften, visibly, he can see it in your eyes as you tilt your head at him. You press your lips together and wipe your eyes again, but there’s no more tears to be found.

”I suppose if I had to cry, I’m glad you were here for it too,” you say with a small grin and it isn’t like your usual one, but it’s a start. Your face grows a lot more serious as you say, “You make pretty much everything a bit better.”

And he doesn’t know what to do with that at all. If you’d said that to him back when the two of you were sixteen, he might have told you he was in love with you then and there. But he’s not sixteen anymore, and he has enough sense to know this is far from the time for that. So he hopes he isn’t blushing too much and goes back to what he knows.

”Only a bit better?”

You shove him, and he’s on his knees, so he’s quick to lose his balance and go toppling to the floor. It finally brings out your real laugh, loud and giggly, as you wriggle about in your chair.

His knees hurt but all he can feel is delighted.

Soon enough, he heaves himself to standing, pretending to glare at you as he returns to his chair and you’re still giggling.

”Your tea will go cold. I made that for you ages ago, you know.”

”I was crying!”

”I know. It was very annoying,” he says, grinning at you so you know he doesn’t mean a word. You laugh yet again, which is exactly what he was going for, “Seriously, lovely. Please say something when you’re feeling overwhelmed, I can’t bear for all that to be happening in your pretty little head without me knowing.”

He sees you react to the word pretty this time; you preen.

”I don’t want you feeling left out,” you agree teasingly, with a little sigh, “Alright, I’ll tell you. Only if you reply to all my texts for me.

”If you order Chinese for dinner, we can sit on the sofa and reply to them together?”

You look like you could run round the table and hug him again, and he considers his job complete. That little instinct that urged him to fix it calms down and the big instinct he usually has to kiss you senseless returns full force. He sips his tea instead of listening to it, for now.

- - -

if you have a request of your own (esp for more of this universe or more soft!marauders, i would love to hear from you sunflower <3

#remus lupin x reader #remus lupin fluff #remus lupin fanfiction #remus x reader #remus lupin #marauders x reader

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baphometsss · 4 days ago

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On Solas's romantic history

Okay. I know what the consensus is. That he’s way too smooth in Inquisition to be inexperienced but... (and I’m fully prepared to get shat on for this lmao don’t kill me)

When he kisses Lavellan, that doesn’t read to me like he’s super suave and seductive. It reads more like—endeared by them trying to run away after kissing him, then being so surprised by how good the kiss felt, that he grabs Lavellan, kisses them again, pulls back with a surprised look on his face, and then goes in for more. It’s touch-starved, desperate, hungry. It’s not really all that smooth because he’s literally bending them over backwards lmao like Solas can you chill maybe

He is very smooth when flirting with Lavellan, but he's also an absolute gobshite who's spent thousands of years sassing the hell out of wannabe gods so that's not a surprise. He's witty af and enjoys some back and forth.

Solas is a very lonely man. He keeps everyone at arm’s length because he’s seen what getting close to people can do to him. His biggest fear is dying alone, and he almost gives into that because it’s what he believes he deserves for all he’s done. His life has been so stressful for so long that he's almost totally unable to consider anything else but his battles. He even says explicitly that he's tired.

That doesn’t make me think of someone who was out there in Ancient Elvhenan sleeping around all those years. No doubt he considered it, but he likely didn't pursue much with anyone physical; he enjoyed spending as much time as possible in the Fade. (The banter with Blackwall doesn't count to me personally since Solas himself thinks the whole idea is preposterous, which speaks for itself really.) Especially after being a slave/servant to Mythal seems to have voided him of his agency for some time. Then he led a rebellion and fought for thousands of years against brutal tyrants. Any one of the people he was close to could’ve been trying to kill him. Lavellan, however, has no reason to do so, so he can flirt with them freely. In all that time, it seems as though the only people he allowed to get close to the real him were Felassan and Mythal. I don’t think he slept with either, because the relationship was familial. Felassan was also loyal to Mythal, but didn’t burn his vallaslin off. (Is this a right hand/left hand of the Divine parallel again? Two brothers and their mother? Idk, I need to think about that one). For creatures with bodies made from the blood of Titans, they don’t have blood families. They would’ve had to forge their own, which is what Solas did with Mythal and Felassan.

And then there’s his ‘it has been a long time’. Most have taken this to mean that it’s been a long time since he’s been intimate with someone, but given what we know now and that he spent thousands of years in the Fade while his body was in uthenera… I wonder if he’s actually saying-- ‘it has been a long time since I lived in a body’-- ie. ‘it has been a long time since I felt physical drives, a long time since I have felt so physically real’. To me, this makes a lot more sense than the ‘he’s thousands of years old he can’t possibly be a virgin/inexperienced’ take bc like... My friends. It probably didn’t feel like thousands of years to him bc he’s essentially always existed. Time is different for spirits. It’s not like he’s gonna go: ‘well I’m nearly 4000y/o, better lose my v-card’. Time is no object when you are a timeless being. Then, given the path his life took, it wouldn’t make a lot of sense for him to be that experienced given how hard it is for him to trust.

I also personally headcanon him as heavily demisexual/demiromantic too. His true nature is so non-physical that the idea of him being very promiscuous or something just doesn’t fit his character. He needs a mental connection, to feel something, before sharing much of himself, or allowing himself the vulnerability intimacy brings, something he clearly feels with Lavellan based on how shaken up by it he is.

And it’s also canon that Solas has never been in love before meeting Lavellan. So. If he went however many millennia without falling in love, it’s also possible he went without intimacy for a long time too.

To be clear I’m not trying to say that this is the correct conclusion. My opinion has just changed a little since Veilguard (I used to think he was being smooth etc bc he's old af/v experienced, but with confirmation of former spirit Solas it’s changed my perspective somewhat)

Also:

‘Things have always been easier for me in the Fade’

‘I am not often thrown by things that happen in dreams’ my man is shooketh guys SHOOKETH

#solas #solavellan #dragon age spoilers #dragon age

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roach-master · 3 months ago

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my personal theory about Vox’s death

cw: discussion of mental illness, transphobia/homophobia, typical 1950s shit

also i am very tired rn so this might be confusing as hell xD

So Vox died aged 30-40s, during the 1950s. I’m going to start this off by saying that if Vox was a fit young man in those times, he likely would have been drafted into WW2. Now you could say he died then, but the war ended in 1945.

So my first assumption is he was deemed unfit (due to mental illness or the fact that he is bisexual), or he is a transgender man (that’s mostly me projecting, though).

For the sake of this I’m just gonna say it went both ways.

I think during life vox was a television broadcaster of some sort. Since WW2 opened up opportunities for more genders to work, he could still have been quite famous.

However, he was also greedy, selfish, a huge attention seeker, and overall pretty unhinged. He might have gone and tried to kill someone who he saw as a rival. And that, along with how queer people were treated, could have easily gotten him thrown into a mental institution.

Now, asylums in the 1950s were absolutely awful. They were overcrowded, the patients were experimented on, etc. just generally NOT where you wanted to be back then.

They used (and still use, although it’s much safer now) a treatment called electro convulsive therapy (ECT). During these times though, they were unmodified, which is now considered unethical. Now, ECT is a treatment that involves essentially shocking the brain, forcing a seizure. My theory is he died from that, and thus ended up in Hell.

I think this would explain his general paranoia, and need to keep his true, more evil personality secret. He clearly tries to appeal to the public as much as possible and fears imperfection. He doesn’t show his true side, not even to his apparently closest friends. He’s scared of being seen as crazy.

Vox is incredibly smart. He knows that nobody in Hell is a good person (Fuck, he would probably use that as an excuse on why he doesn’t need to genuinely change. He’s still evil, after all.) but he’s terrified of what might happen if he doesn’t present himself as perfect. People might reject him, and of course he doesn’t want that. He craves attention, his worst fear is being worthless, irrelevant, and tossed away like nothing. Just like he was before he died.

But that’s just a theory. A VOX THEORY (im sorry)

#hazbin hotel #hazbin fandom #hazbin hotel vox #hazbin vox #vox the tv demon #fan theory #backstory #hazbin theory #hazbin hotel theory #vox hazbin hotel #human vox #past vox #trans vox #i did so much research for this guys #might write a fic #i love giving characters trauma #vox #bisexual vox

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tenitchyfingers · 2 months ago

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So like, I have a thought about Chester’s mother and son coming out and speaking against LP’s reunion and doing it with a new vocalist: these people seem to think Chester was Linkin Park and Linkin Park were Chester and there’s no LP without Chester, but like… no? It’s a band. Bands replace their members all the time and when a band member dies someone else comes in often enough.

Sure, Chester was the voice of the band and arguably the most recognized member of the band, but there were always other people behind it, who created the sound just as much as he did. So honestly, just like nobody is mad at Foo Fighters for getting another drummer I don’t see why anyone would hold it against LP for getting a new vocalist, especially when she works out so well and fits like a pea in a pod.

Wrt the Scientology thing: she’s not in the cult. She was born into it, but she left it asap and on top of that she’s queer and her other band Dead Sara have songs about mental health, which Scientology is all against. The entire reason she hasn’t spoken out against them is that Scientology is legitimately a terrifying organization and that could put her and the people she loves in danger. If you go against Scientology, your life is legit over, so how could anyone hold it against her? Only people who never dealt with cult-like thought could think someone being born into one is somehow guilty of it. How fucking dense do people have to be?? That’s like blaming an abuse victim for staying with their abuser for a while before breaking off.

Wrt the Danny Masterson thing: she cut off all ties with him. She has also publicly made clear that she supports all victims of rape and abuse. Why was she supportive of him at a preliminary hearing? Because when you’re someone’s friend you want to believe they are better than what’s being said about them, and after figuring him out she immediately regretted ever supporting him. So why the fuck are people so rabidly going against her and against the band? Like these aren’t all grown ass adults? Why the fuck are people acting like they know everything when really they know NOTHING?

And let me also say this: Chester made his choice. Maybe it was a fatal moment, maybe he was drunk and made a rushed decision, or maybe he planned it exactly as it happened, we’ll never know because he didn’t tell anyone about it and didn’t even leave a message. The rest of the band made their choice to keep on going forward, and that is ENTIRELY their prerogative, especially because none of them had a say on Chester leaving. Am I blaming Chester? Hell no. But the others have every right to keep the band running and you can choose to accept it or not, but clearly they did it with a lot of respect for the history of the band and Chester’s legacy, which is why they didn’t go for a Chester impersonator but just went a completely different direction. And you can feel however you want about it, but if you’re really a fan you’ll leave quietly and not harass anyone in the band, because his entire deal was kindness and love. Obviously, if you’re NOT a LP fan then you automatically do not have a say because like wtf shut up then. And I don’t know how Chester would feel about this development, but I do know that he would be incredibly disappointed by the response some people are giving, focusing mainly on the new female vocalist because LP also have a new drummer but nobody’s spitting hate about that, are they? Even though the drums and rhythmic section is fundamental in LP, as much as the vocals and the hip-hop portions of their sound. To me it sounds like people just enjoy fetishizing suicide and starting drama about it.

Also, Emily fucking ROCKS. She’s a perfect fit, she’s not trying to emulate Chester but she’s her own person and the band sounds incredibly coesive and their synergy is off the charts. This is just another phase for the band, and this is a band who never stopped experimenting and changing from the very beginning. If you wanted them to stay stuck on the same sounds you are following the wrong kind of band. Go stan AC/DC (and I love AC/DC, don’t get me wrong, but their sound just never really evolved and that’s fine too). And even AC/DC changed band members, multiple times!

And also, finally, if the sight of Mike smiling and being happy to be back on stage with the band didn’t spark joy for you enough to think “yeah, this is the right choice for them”, you aren’t really a LP fan. Mike and the other guys have put up with way too much to tell them that they can’t run this shit how they want. Them and Emily are Linkin Park, like it or not. Most fans have accepted and welcomed her. If you don’t accept Emily, you don’t accept LP.

#rant #Linkin park #Emily Armstrong #Mike Shinoda #also Colin is such a solid drummer too #honestly the band has never sounded this good and so cohesive before #I’m so FUCKING excited for the new album man #if ur a Emily Armstrong hater just block me and move on with your life #don’t even rb or reply because this is my take and I ain’t changing it

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gayleatherstories · 30 days ago

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The start of something new

Caring leather dom 46M looking for younger submissive bottom to take care of

I kept going back to the same profile. Ask me why and I couldn't tell you. Truth is, I'm as straight as they come, I just love anal play. I blame my ex to be honest. I had brought up wanting to try anal and the only way she agreed was if she got to peg me first. We fought about it because at first there's no way I was putting anything up there to which she pointed out the hypocrisy of that statement. Long story short I fucking loved it. I think a bit to much for my ex because a couple weeks later she dumped me.

Turns out not a lot of women seemed interested in the idea of topping me. I casually dated a couple girls but every time I brought up pegging or a strap on they seemed to peace out of the relationship. I couldn't get the feeling of being filled like that out of my mind though. So after a while I made a faceless Grindr account "just to see". And that's how I eventually ended up on this 'caring' Dom's profile. My eyes kept going back to his package. I decided to close the app and just keep it moving.

Later that day I saw I got a notification from Grindr.

I've noticed you've checked my profile a couple times. Hello!

I decided to respond.

Hi! Yeah, sorry! I'm just intrigued I guess! Sorry if that was weird haha

No need to be so apologetic boy. I just wanted to let you know that I don't bite ;) What are you looking for?

Him calling me boy made me feel weird but I didn't have anything to lose and I also didn't really think there was any harm in responding.

Well I'm in a bit of a pickle as they say. I'm straight but turns out I love anal play and I haven't really been able to find a girl willing to scratch that specific itch so to speak.

So you did a bit of mental word association with anal play and ended up on a gay app?

Hehe.. yup

Yup

Well, If you want your ass filled I might be willing to oblige. Depends on a couple things though.

Which are?

1. If I'm attracted to you 2. Your willingness to wear leather and/or rubber during playtime. If my profile didn't make it clear already I've got a bit of a kink you see 3. If I'm fucking you, no one else is.

I see

To be honest. I was getting hornier and hornier the longer this conversation kept going on. In my horniness I decided to sent a picture.

Well this is me. I'm fine with the leather/rubber, though I don't have any. And I'm also fine with just you doing that.

You'll do just fine. Some of my old gear will probably fit you. My name is Derrick by the way. You want to set a date?

Nice to meet you Derrick, I'm Steve. And how about next Saturday?

Saturday works. Here's my address. I expect you around 5pm.

And just like that I had set a time and place to get fucked in the ass by a man.

Saturday 4:57 pm

As I rang Derrick's doorbell I suddenly got hit by a wave of anxiety. What the fuck was I doing? I'm not gay. But right when I decided to turn back around and go home the door opened. Derrick was dressed like his picture. Decked out in full leather head to toe. He said hi and welcomed me inside. He offered me a beer which I eagerly accepted. I needed to take the edge off.

Turns out Derrick was a cool dude. We chatted about his work, my work, life etc. When I finished my third beer Derrick asked if I wanted to get down to business. Feeling a bit braver thanks to the alcohol I agreed.

First he took me to his bedroom where he had laid out two outfits he wanted me to wear. One was a leather vest, a leather jockstrap and leather chaps. The other was a rubber catsuit, a leather dog mask and leather mitts. I decided on the full leather look first. When I finished changing he took me in front of a full length mirror. We looked like a kinky gay couple. While I was mesmerized by my leather clad self Derrick stepped up flush against my back pushing his leather bulge between my cheeks.

"You're looking even more fuckable."

Truly at this point I didn't know what the fuck to feel. I clearly liked Derrick as a person and I definitely liked the current pressure on my hole.

"Thank you?"

"Why don't you try on the rubber option too, so you can make an educated decision."

To be honest I was quite intrigued so I threw caution to the wind and changed again. This time I needed his help to get everything on and when I was all dressed he told me to kneel so he could put on 'my collar' and take a picture. I felt safe behind the mask so I did as he asked.

"Good puppy. Now close those cute eyes for me I want to surprise you with the finishing touches."

Not going to lie I was horny as hell at this point so I just did as told. I heard Derrick open and close a drawer, walk back over to me and fiddle with my collar, cuffs and the back of my rubber suit. A couple of clicking sounds later he told me to open my eyes.

At first I didn't realise what had changed until I saw the locks dangling from my leather mitts. I was effectively locked in this outfit.

Before I could think to much about it Derrick asked me if I'd ever sucked a cock before. I told him that I hadn't. He proceeded to get a suction cup dildo out one of the closets in his bedroom and sticking it to the mirror 'so I could keep track of what I was doing'. He also unbuckled the dogmask and told me to start sucking it like I'd want my own cock to be sucked.

Since sucking another man's dick, real or otherwise, had never crossed my mind I hesitated. Derrick sensing my hesitation told me to close my eyes and start kissing it like I would kiss a girlfriend. I asked him if oral was really necessary to which he replied that he doesn't like using lube so the only way to lubricate his cock is with my own saliva.

So I started kissing the tip, the shaft, the balls and eventually took it in my mouth. Before long I felt Derrick's hand pushing my head further and further on the fake cock.

#gay leather #leather master #gay rubber

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fromchaostocosmos · 1 year ago

Text

I'm very frustrated with how the various youtubers and streamers talk about Ben Shapiro.

Because they do not understand or have the proper context when talking about him and everything he represents.

They also often go into antisemitic territory when mocking him, while it is unintentional and something they may not not even know they are doing, they are doing it none the less.

When they mock his voice or call him Shabibo that is actually antisemitic territory.

Due to a history of Jewish people having our names stripped from us and voices and names mocked. Now I too find his voice to be personally annoying, but I won't mock it because of said history.

It is not about the curtsy that Ben Shapiro deserves or doesn't deserve, but rather about deciding when it is okay to employ antisemitism against a Jewish person.

The answer is never.

The overwhelming majority of these commentators are not Jewish and the few that are Jewish don't seem to know any of the important details that make what Ben Shapiro says so dangerous for all Jews and such a false representation.

See what is not presented in discussions about him is that Ben Shapiro is not there to pull in a Jewish audience he is there as a token Jew to help further pull in an christian audience.

That is what makes it all so very insidious in nature. And sadly some Jewish people get fooled by this too because they do not look beyond the front facing facade he wears like costume, but they do not actually listen the words he says.

Ben Shapiro harps about a 'war on christmas' which no Jewish person would seriously do or care for. Especially any Ashkenazi Jews with our very long long history of being murdered in mass on xmas. Christmas eve is became seen a spiritually impure night that it would be called Nittle Nacht in Yiddish and Jewish people would purposefully not study Torah that night.

American Jews, like many others who belong to non-christian religious and cultural groups, have to deal with living a majority Christian country and country that culturally Christian and only makes concession for Christianity.

Has Ben Shapiro ever talked about that or the actual fights to get time off for our Holidays? No because that doesn't fit the narrative. But business having employees switch from 'merry christmas' to 'happy holidays' most certainly does.

Ben Shapiro has explicitly stated that he believes that conception is when life begins which is something to no in keeping with any Jewish held belief anywhere.

We hold life begins at first breath, the mother comes first (I wrote mother because that is wording used in the various writings, but really it would be the pregnant individual comes first), and that it doesn't just need to physical health on the line it can also be one's mental health at stake in order to need an abortion

Ben Shapiro talks about Judeo-Christan values, which a bullshit term that was created after the Holocaust to make it seem like Christian Antisemitism played no role in what happened and that the Church was not a guilty party. It is also a term that essentially holds Jewish people hostage.

He uses this term and talks about these shared values. So I have to ask what values?

Is respecting the elderly, caring for the sick, kindness to others, tending to the poor, and such? Because those are universal values and can be found in pretty much every culture and religion.

What about original sin? Heaven and Hell? Can someone be the literal child of G-d? Does G-d have literal hands, a actual face? What is the gender of G-d?

Just some questions to start with since you know we clearly have the same values and stuff.

Because Judaism would say: No such thing as original sin and in fact Hebrew doesn't have a word for sin we have words that mean things that wrongly translated in English as sin, but no, word for sin. We hold all people are born blank we go through and have experiences and make choices and those choices speak to who we are.

We believe in This World and The World to Come and the spiritual washing machine so to speak, but no a big nope to heaven and hell. No to Satan too. There is the HaSatan which means prosecutor who is as the name means in the Ultimate Court.

When we say "we are the children of G-d" it is poetic flourish and is metaphorical not literal no one can be the literal hild of G-d.

Same way we anthropomorphize G-d so that we have an easier time contextualizing G-d because otherwise it can be hard to wrap your mind around.

G-d is both genderfull and genderless at the same time. It depends on what you are talking about, in what context, and what aspect of G-d of you using. For example the Voice G-d and Presence of G-d are both in the feminine in Hebrew.

These have just been a tiny amount of examples from a vast vast array them.

My point is that if all these people are going to talk about Ben Shapiro especially ones with large followings please bring on someone who is actually knowledge and qualified to talk about this so the facts can properly be presented and explained.

Like I on occasion will listen to Leftovers podcast in background it hosted by Ethan from H3H and Hassan Piker and in the most recent episode that I was listening, which I had to stop because I was getting to annoyed by, they where talking about Ben Shapiro.

It was very frustrating for me. I get that Hassan might be very politically involved and knowledge about stuff, don't really know I don't watch him, but I was thinking the whole time that this is not an area you know.

You are talking about Jewish stuff and things related Jewish views points and you have no clue what you are talking about. You are talking about a religion and culture you just don't know anything about and are trying to debunk Ben Shapiro.

It will not work because you don't have necessary information and understanding to do so.

And you are missing the biggest point of it all which is again Ben is there as a draw for Christians. Because for these kinds of Christians having a Jew give a stamp of approval gives it some kind veneer of legitimacy.

It validates them and allows them to not have to feel guilty for crimes against Jewish people that they are party too.

This doesn't mean they like Jews or want us around or interested in our problems or helping us.

It is all about them in the same way they have Candace Owens tell them all the thing they want to hear so they never have to self-examine or reflect on anything and can assuage their white-guilt and keep of being horrific anti-Black.

They don't care about Black people or Black issues because they listen to a Black woman talk.

It is all for self-serving interests that they have been Ben and Candace there. While many seem to get that point (if you didn't get it before well get it now) in regards to Candace Owens and the purpose of her employment they miss that very important detail when comes to Ben Shapiro.

#ben shapiro #antisemitism #jumblr #christian antisemitism #evangelical antisemitism #protestant antisemitism #an essay of a post

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too-many-rooks · 17 days ago

Text

What's the deal with Patrice?

Patrice is such an intriguing but enigmatic character in season four the show; I ended the season pretty fascinated by him (and how he fits into a certain type *cough* Yassen *cough*) so flocked to the books for more details. In ‘Spook Street’, he's one of our POV characters, so we get a much more internal perspective of his thinking, his character, and his history at Les Arbes.

So I've collated some quotes from the book that I think shine an interesting light on him, for general information, and as a fic writing resource.(please please write fic about patrice pls pls pls)

Under the cut are some book spoilers from 'Spook Street'. I've not yet read past this book, so there are no further book spoilers, and nothing here spoils major plot points that you won't already know if you've seen season four, though I highly recommend the books!

This is broken down into sections about...

His relationship with his mother and his father (Who is not Frank in the book,)

His attachment to Bertrand, (And how that connects to his interactions with River,)

His general character traits,

His indoctrination and relationship with Frank.

General Character traits.

One of the things that particularly struck me about Patrice, is how normal he's described as being, at least on the surface. He is careful, measured, and rational. He's clearly very good at what he does, but doesn't seem to derive too much pride from his skills, he wants to complete his targets, report his successes, and move on.

Starting with a more generalised collection of quotes, these passages give insight into his thought process, perspective, and relationship to his work and general character.

In pretty stark contrast to River, who spends most of his time flailing about without a clue what's going on, especially during his time in France -

'He knew precisely where he was-wouldn't dream of setting foot on hostile land without memorising routes-' p.223

His connection to his cold body, Paul Wayne, is something ingrained in him from his earliest memory; Paul doesn't seem to be a persona or someone with a notably different character and behaviour; Paul both is and isn't Patrice. Also, he can speak without a French accent.

“None of which was news to Patrice. Who wasn’t Patrice today, but that was hardly news either. His passport proclaimed him Paul Wayne, and this required no mental adjustment: Patrice had been Paul Wayne for as long as he could remember. And Paul Wayne was as much at home in London, even the bad parts, as anywhere in France; could order a drink either side of the river, and nobody would bat an eye. Because Paul Wayne didn’t just speak English, he spoke English English, the same way he spoke French French. He’d have tied Henry Higgins in knots, and if that wasn’t enough to piss Higgins off, Paul Wayne could have gone on to kill him with his bare hands in about fourteen different ways, because that, too, had been part of the training that had been taking place every moment of Patrice’s life. Patrice’s life was about being Paul Wayne. And today Paul Wayne was taking one Sam Chapman off the board.” p.279

In a fight, he's able to keep his head, and stay focused on the facts. In the garage when he's trying to kill Sam, he manages to take down -

“Two of them, and both down. It had taken seconds. There was no pride in the thought. He was simply monitoring the situation.” p.306

We see again his calm, unemotional response to combat during his attack on Slough House.

“He sensed that the woman’s gun was empty, because there was fear in her eyes, and she did not look like someone who would be scared holding a loaded gun. Microseconds, these thoughts took. Less. It was part of what he’d learned at Les Arbres, in its woods and in its cellars; that you measured a situation in the moment you became part of it, and that what you did next was less action than response—you became part of the inevitable: that was what he had been taught. What would happen next was fixed from the moment he’d kicked the door down. All that remained was for the bodies to hit the floor.” p.455

Natasha and Yevgeny.

In the book, the woman from Les Arbes that River meets, Natasha, is a bit different. Instead of Bertrand's mother, she's Patrice's. Similarly, Natasha was a local girl, who was impregnated when she was around 18, by an older man from Les Arbes, though in the books he's a character called Yevgeny. Deviating from the show, Natasha doesn't seem to have any particularly negative feelings toward Yevgeny, though she recognises their age gap, and how constricted her life would be if she stayed with him.

Yevgeny is Russian, 'of course', (p.256), a former KGB spy who had worked at the Russian embassy in London. (p.320). In his interrogation, Frank mentions a KGB member 'who specialised in what Harkness called mental calibration.' (p.495) It's unclear exactly what this means, but seems to suggest Yevgeny played a pretty central role in forming the minds of their home-grown assassins.

Natasha and Yevgeny meet in a bar, in the summer of 1990, and she eventually becomes pregnant.

'"My parents are very angry with me, and with Yevgeny too. He was much older than me. In his thirties." "And how did he react?" Her eyes became faraway again. "He is happy. He say he will be good father, and we will live happily ever after."' p.257.

Aware that this version of a happily ever after constricts her world to the two bridges that mark her village, and the next one along the river, Natasha feels constrained. She wants to go to Paris, wants to see the world - but doesn't seem to want to leave Yevgeny, instead, she wants -

'"Yevgeny to take me away. Not keep me here." "Did you have the baby?" "Yes. A boy, Patrice. And he does what babies do, which is cry a lot, and I was just eighteen... So one night... I leave the house with some money I have saved and I catch a train to Paris, which is how I get to see parts of the world which are not between these two bridges."' p.258.

During this time in Paris, she became a prostitute. She comes back to the area, after ten years or so, because her father has died and she's able to come back.

'“All that time Yevgeny has [Patrice], at Les Arbres. My parents never see him, my father because he does not want to, and my mother because my father. But Yevgeny sends her photographs. I have these pictures still. I will show them to you.” “I went there, of course. To Les Arbres. But they do not let me in. Yevgeny, he comes out. He tells me I am not welcome, that I am no longer Patrice’s mother. That he has a family, and does not need me.” “I’m sorry,” River said. “I too. Because I know he is right, I am not Patrice’s mother. I give him birth, that is all. But still, I want to see him, I demand to see him, and then Frank comes, and Frank, he is very clear, very direct. He tells me that unless I leave, he will have police arrest me. He will tell them that not only am I a prostitute but a drug addict also, and other things like that. Threats.”' p.260.

Yevgeny sends Patrice's grandmother pictures of him until she dies when he is ten. This is the last photo she has of her son, and the last time she has seen him, but she seems keen to be reunited.

‘“If you find my son,” she said, “you will tell me, yes? You will tell me where he is?” River lied to her, as sincerely as he knew how.’ (p.265).

Later, after being taken captive by him, River mentions both of his parents to try and sway or disrupt Patrice.

During the initial assault on the convoy, when he's about to shoot Flyte, River repeatedly calls him by his name, and tells him "It's not what Yevgeny would want." (p.359.) This is enough to make Patrice pause, not shoot Flyte, and question who this guy is.

River gets kidnapped, and him and Patrice have a weird date (which we will go into in more detail about below), and as he's taking him to Frank, River goes for another attempt at using his family to throw him off.

'“I met your mother today,” he said. “Natasha.” Patrice said nothing. “She misses you.” Patrice shook his head, but still said nothing. “She wants to know you’re all right. It worried her, when Les Arbres burned down. Any mother would worry.” “I have no mother.” “She didn’t abandon you, you know. Or at least—she came back. She wanted to see you, to be with you. They wouldn’t let her.” “I have no mother,” Patrice repeated. “She was there for years. Never far away. In case you needed her.” Patrice looked at him and said, “Those things never happened. Stop talking.” “I will if you want. But I don’t think you do.” As casually as if he were swatting a fly, Patrice reached out to slap River’s cheek, but River had been expecting this, or something like it, and blocked the blow. But not the second, which was aimed at his throat. Patrice pulled it at the last second, or River would have been laid out on the pavement. Patrice said, “Stop now. Or I’ll make you.”' (p.406)

From this, we can understand that any mention of his mother wanting to be re-united was kept from him. His insistence that he has no mother, seems to suggest he was told nothing about her at all, other than that she abandoned him, not even Frank's story of her being a drug-addicted prostitute.

Patrice is unwilling, or unable, to consider that his mother was so close all that time, and still wants to see him and cares about him. He defaults to violence to make River stop voicing these challenging ideas.

His connection with Yevgeny is less clear, but what we hear of him is interesting. His wanting, and being excited for a child, which might have been him fulfilling Frank's orders, keeping Natasha away after she abandoned them, again fits with Frank's wishes to keep the mothers away, but possibly reflects a genuine sense of betrayal, and belief that he is giving Patrice all the family that he needs.

And the pictures; taking a picture of his son every year to send to a woman he doesn't see, who doesn't approve of him, but who is also so clearly in her husbands's control that she wouldn't be in much of a position to kick up a fuss about it if he didn't, creating a potential security risk in circulating evidence of them all together, of the children all together, it's a hell of a thing to do. It introduces this really compelling nuance about how much, if at all, the men at Les Arbes loved their children.

Bertrand

In the pictures Yevgeny sends Patrice's grandmother, sometimes he is in the company of the other children raised at Les Arbes. The book tells us -

“The eldest two, they were at Les Arbres from the beginning. I do not remember their names. And here,” and she plucked a photo from the pile of her son at five or so, with another boy, slightly younger, “this is Patrice with Bertrand. Bertrand is Frank’s son.” “There are six or seven children in the end. All boys. The first two, and then Patrice and Bertrand and two or three more.” p.261

This seems to suggest Patrice and Bertrand were born at a similar time, and possibly constitute their own age group separate from the older two, and younger two(or three).

It's clear that Patrice and Bertrand were close, and he's upset about the likelihood of him being killed, and the possibility of him being taken captive by Mi5, but he can rationalise his death, based on the mistakes he had made. He feels his emotions, expresses them, and then moves on.

'Patrice loved Bertrand like a brother, but facts were facts; Bertrand had been known to falter at critical moments.' p.223 'Squirting cleanser onto the wind-screen, he watched as the wipers smeared the seagull's mess into a grey film. Another clean-up job that made things worse. Then he cried, very briefly, for Bertrand, who was probably dead; squirted more cleanser, and ran the wipers again.' p.225

When River comes back to London using the Adam Lockhead passport, unlike in the show, in the book Patrice thinks it might be Bertrand; here his connection to Bertrand, being the only emotional connection he has left, is displayed again.

"Attachments were encouraged only because without them, there was nothing to purge. Bertrand, though, had been the attachment Patrice had never purged himself of. If Bertrand was alive they could complete this mission together and get the fuck off this godforsaken island.” p.350

Re-uniting with, or freeing Bertrand, finishing their mission, and leaving the country is therefore a top priority.

“Life at Les Arbres had taught him to grasp what needed doing, which here meant reaching St. Pancras before the action moved on. If Bertrand’s passport was flagged, there’d be security waiting. And of all the things that couldn’t be allowed to happen, Bertrand falling into the hands of MI5 ranked way up high.” p.351

Attacking the convoy and discovering the prisoner MI5 have isn't Bertrand, is evidently an upsetting experience for him.

“Because he wasn’t Bertrand, but in that first moment, Patrice thought he was: they had the same features, almost; the same hair. Eyes. Something was going on; crawling under the skin, like a worm inside an apple.” p.350

“Who are you?” Patrice repeated. “Adam Lockhead,” River said. The name cut a groove through Patrice’s expression. “No. Where’s Bertrand? And why . . . ” p.360

And thus kicks off Patrice and River's weird little kidnapping date, a sequence that is significantly longer and juicier in the book than being shoved in the back of a stolen car.

River

River and Patrice have a really interesting dynamic. They're both clearly fascinated by the other, and want to know what's going on. Patrice has technically kidnapped him, and is threatening and hurting him, but River's not exactly trying too hard to run away.

During the attack on the convoy, Patrice tells him they will be leaving together.

'Patrice spoke so calmly he might have been choosing fruit. “We. You and me. Or I’ll kill you here.”' p.361,

River tries to punch him, but he's not totally opposed to the idea -

‘Last thing he was doing was leaving Patrice’s side; not until he’d had a chance to question him about Les Arbres, about the commune, and about why Patrice’s comrade-in-arms had come to kill the O.B.’ p.387 “Not quite a prisoner, then, though hardly an accomplice, he stayed by Patrice’s side." p.387

The two travel by tube, where phone connection means any news about the attack on Pentonville Road would travel slowly, and anyone who thinks they might recognise them easily dismisses it. Also, Patrice pretends to be River's boyfriend.

“Patrice stayed close; one hand on River’s shoulder, as if for balance.” p.387

“Patrice hit him so quickly that nobody saw: not the passers by, hurrying through the rain; not the fellow travellers still sheltering from the downpour. Certainly not River. First he knew about it was, Patrice was lowering him into a sitting position, murmuring calm words. “He’s okay.” This for the benefit of those nearby. “He gets claustrophobic, that’s all.” To River: “Maybe put your head between your knees?” Somebody said, “Are you sure he’s all right? Should we get help? “He’ll be fine. I’m always telling him, we should take taxis. But no, he insists on the underground, and here we are again.” “My boyfriend’s just the same.” Any other time River might have protested the emphasis on My, but at the moment he was coping with a lot of frazzled nerve ends, as if Patrice had laid into him with a cattle prod rather than his little finger, or whatever it was he’d used to do whatever it was he’d done.” p.389 “Patrice maintained the fiction established for them by sitting next to River and putting his arm round his shoulders. He leaned close, as if whispering sweet consolation, and reminded River: “That required no effort on my part.” River said, “Last time someone hurt me like that . . . ” He paused for breath. “Yes?” “I knocked half his brains out with a length of lead pipe.” Patrice made a show of looking here, there, in front, behind. “Don’t see any lead pipe.” “You won’t.” Patrice’s phone chirruped. “Do you mind? I really ought to take this.” He stood and walked a few paces off. River looked around for a length of lead pipe, but his heart wasn’t in it.” p.389

Patrice and River's weird dates continues on to his meeting with Frank, River leading the way when he knows the destination, on a boat painted to resemble dazzle boats from the first world war.

“Patrice said, “That’s something.” River, as if explaining an object of national pride to a tourist, said, “They were painted like that to confuse submarines. It made it harder to sink them, to pinpoint them as targets.” “And that worked?” “Well, this one’s still here.” p.404

Meeting with Frank, Patrice gets some kisses and a pep talk we don't hear, then comes back to say goodbye to River and tell him how they ought to do this again sometime, and melts away into the rain to go murder all his friends & and his Grandpa.

“Patrice paused, then leaned forward, hands in pockets, and kissed River on the cheek. One cheek only. He said, “We will speak again soon.” Then he walked back the way they’d come; just a man hurrying through the rain, eager for the next place of shelter.” p.409

Frank

Patrice's most notable moments of internal fucked-up-edness come from when he's reflecting on his past, his education at Les Arbes, and his connection with Frank. His loyalty is unshakeable and goes as far as hurting himself when he thinks critically about him.

What we learn about a childhood (or the absence of one) at Les Arbes, is also very notable.

Like Patrice, like Bertrand, like all of them, Yves had had his childhood removed even while it was happening, and replaced by qualities Frank favoured: obedience to him, and reliance on no other. p.350

We can see this focus on total obedience to Frank being ingrained very early on, with orders, or 'instructions', being performed without question.

“And an instruction from Frank, who had been giving him instructions since he was a toddler, and who had ensured, way back then, that there was no question of Patrice not carrying them out.” p.428

And then there's the cellar.

“For one brief moment, he remembered the cellar. Each of the boys, on their twelfth birthday, had been locked in a cellar at Les Arbres, with no natural light and just one candle. Every morning, a single bread roll and a beaker of water was delivered. And every morning, they were told they would be released as soon as they asked for their freedom. Bertrand, Patrice remembered, had lasted just seventeen days before asking to be released. Patrice remembered Frank’s look of disdain at his son’s reappearance, as if it were an act of cowardice, or betrayal. Patrice himself had lasted a full month: at the time, a new record. Yves had lasted two.” (434)

I'm fascinated by the cellar. I'm fascinated by how long a boy is supposed to stay in the cellar. Bertrand, at seventeen days, clearly does not last long enough. Before Yves, no one had done better than Patrice's record of a month.

(Also, a brief note bc I spent too long fretting over it when I was writing my fic but; just one candle? How are they meant to light the candle? Is there a way to start a fire in the basement? Do they need to ask? Is asking for light also a reflection of weakness?)

From this passage, we can infer quite a lot about these three boys. Bertrand, who had been 'known to falter', does poorly, with his seventeen days, and Frank is clearly very disappointed in him.

(Diversion again bc I'm curious if this sets a trend for the rest of their relationship, where in conversation with River later on, he's able to discuss his son's death very unpersonally, their connection being as vague as "Someone he shared a lift with once," being dissapointed that he'd managed to let the an old man get the best of him, "It's like, lesson one. Don't let your guard down just because the target appears harmless." p.410 He tells River he's 'screaming inside', and hurting over Bertrand's death, but needs to focus on the mission, and that mission having pivoted recruiting River, is also cracking jokes about doing his whole 'I am your father' speech in a Darth Vader voice. (p.425, p.410)

Back to the cellar and Les Arbes. Patrice sets a record; lasting a whole month is evidently seen as an achievement, and doesn't seem to earn any of the scorn and disappointment Bertrand does.

Yves two months, though, is apparently somewhat alarming - from the books we learn that Yves was basically too into everything at Les Arbes, and took his terrorist training too literally, too extremely. Natasha is unnerved by her memories of him, and singles him out from the others as being creepy, looking at people 'like they are a different species... Like they are insects, or worse. Lower than insects.' p.264

We see Patrice's opinion of Yves carried on in this extract, when he talks about on his seventh birthday, being handed a photo of his mother who he'd never met, staring at it for five minutes, and then being handed a box of matches by Frank, and burning it with no hesitation, and 'glee in his eyes.'

"Patrice had been frightened of Yves, a little. He sometimes wondered if Frank had been too." p.350

Reflecting on their time in the cellar, Patrice briefly thinks about how...

“Frank should have known that there would come a time when Yves’s desire to prove he could go further than any of them would see him step over each and every line there was.” p.435

This thought, that a child-soldier radicalised from birth and pushed to the edge in every conceivable way, might end up going a bit far, and the all-knowing figure of total obedience in their life should have realised that, requires instant self-inflicted punishment from Patrice.

“But this thought, that Frank should have known, demanded punishment, and Patrice submitted to the moment, lashing out at the pebble-dashed wall, then licking the resulting blood from his knuckles. He had deserved that. Nobody could have known where Yves’s demons would take him. It was this place that was breeding such ideas: rainy London, its blues and greys seeping into his soul. Well, Patrice wouldn’t be here much longer. This last task done, he and Frank could vanish back to the mainland: Les Arbres was smoke and ashes, but they’d find somewhere. And the others would return—except for Bertrand, of course; except for Yves—and life would start again.”

Here, we have this moment of self-flagellation for thinking critically about Frank, which seems so instinctual I have to believe it's another thing drummed into them from an early age, also backed up by Patrice hurting himself again during his assault on Slough House -

“Deliberately, he banged his head against the wall, twice. Clarity of a kind returned.” p.450

In addition, we also see how Patrice can rationalise Frank's failures as not his fault. It wasn't Les Arbes that corrupted Yves, but London, and being in London was corrupting him too. He can't escape with Bertrand, and the only home he's known is gone, but he wants to reunite with the others and have his life start again.

But we all know that never happens.

#Slow Horses #Patrice #Slow Horses Patrice #Patrice Harkness #Patrice Fedchenko #I don't know how to tag him #Slow horses season 4 #slow horses s4 #Spook Street #Les Arbes #Frank Harkness #Bertrand Harkness #River Cartwright #Slow horses meta #meta #long post

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restinslices · 11 months ago

Note

If requests are open how abt teens lin kuei brothers x brat male reader? (Also teen)

I tried my best but I’m actually so bad at writing dom characters, it’s insane. After Bi-Han, my brain shut off. If this was a paid service, you’d need a refund gang. You said teens but I kept them as adults cause although ik minors engage in those activities aswell, I’m an adult soooooo😃

Bi-Han

Some people are probably expecting me to say some wild shit like he's the worst, he doesn't respect boundaries, he's always angry at you, doesn't listen to the safe word, ect ect.

I don't think that's true

Am I saying he's all soft and squishy? No. But Bi-Han is not a terrible dom.

Bi-Han is a perfectionist so any precautions beforehand are definitely gonna be dealt with. What he wants outta this, what you want, limits, ect.

Onto dealing with a brat though, we already know Bi-Han has a short temper so any bratty behavior would noticeably annoy him

Smth that would guarantee a punishment would be acting out in front of other Lin Kuei or just in public. It'd be discreet enough that no one would really notice what's going on, but obvious enough that he'd know you're being a brat on purpose

Questioning certain orders, doing things extremely slow, talking over him, the list could go on. Being bratty around people especially when he's supposed to be “professional” is the quickest way to get a punishment

I kinda see it as a storm. You know it's coming, you see the signs, but when it happens you still go “dammit. I can't believe it's raining like this”

Does he warn you? Yes. But he only does it once. If you keep going, he mentally writes it all down

Now Bi-Han doesn't strike me as someone who particularly likes physical touch all the time but punishments don't have to be the typical spanking or harsh fucking. He can be more creative

I feel like he enjoys punishments that have to do with humiliation. There's so much control in telling you to do something and you just follow it.

Very much a “ride my boot” type of guy

The type to make you orgasm over and over again and you don't stop until he's satisfied (obviously keeping your safety and what you can take in mind though)

Takes bratty behavior seriously. He's not making funny little jokes or nothing of the sort. He's putting you in your place

His punishments would linger. For example he'd tell you to tell him whenever you got horny and why for like, a solid week. This seems small but if you get hormonal easily, you're going up to him a lot and he's shaming you everytime.

His arms? You're that easy? How could you even survive without him?

The best part of this is you don't have to tell him any of this. Realistically you could ignore this or not tell him every time you're hormonal, and he makes sure to taunt you and remind you of this.

Humiliation punishments are his go to

Rewards would probably be allowing you a bit of control, like picking any toys you'll use or letting you pick the scene

A brat would probably fit him well cause he gets to constantly put you in your place, which can be a good way to relax for him

Kuai Liang

Is also very organized. So organized I think he'd have a secret way to tell you he's actually not in the mood or too busy for you.

“Go take a walk” means “not right now”

Bratty behaviors that would bother him the most I think would be doing dumb shit. Like, below average IQ type of things.

It bothers him because you're not stupid so stop acting stupid. If he says do A, don't do B

But it's fine. You wanna play stupid? He can do that.

I know I said Bi-Han’s punishments sometimes linger but it really ain't got shit on Kuai Liang’s

If you wanna act like you don't understand basic orders because you wanna act out, then he's gonna act like he doesn't understand anything you want.

You say “I need you” but he goes to do something else. What's the problem? Clearly you were saying you needed him to do laundry that day.

You say “touch me” but he touches you everywhere except where you really need him

You could say something as clear as “please make me cum” and he'd bring you close, but would stop. Why are you upset? You didn't say what day to make you cum. You'll do it later.

Every single request you have for him turns into something you didn't want and he watches with satisfaction as it slowly drives you insane.

And doing other bratty behaviors to try and get a response outta him doesn't work because the more bratty you act, the longer he's gonna keep this up. He has the patience to do this too.

This won't stop until you're on your knees begging like a madman for him to do anything to make you feel good and promising you'll behave from now on.

And even then he's not satisfied. You have to actually show you're gonna start behaving. He won't actually give you what you want until you behave for at least a week or two straight. No problems. No complaining. No issues.

You both know you'll act out again but for a good chunk of time, he's enjoying his peace

Tomas Vrbada

I honestly cannot imagine this man as a dom but for you, I will try

Tomas is a nice guy and this nice guy shit is how the problem would start

Taunts would be the way to get to him. So when you say “can't you do better or are you too soft?” it gets to him

Tomas’ version of punishment would be doing nothing at all.

He's too soft? Ok. That means he's too soft to touch you, to whisper any dirty things, to tease you, ect.

Kuai Liang is interacting with you but is doing the exact opposite, Tomas is straight up refusing to do anything.

You can try to seduce him all you want, you're getting a smart ass “we can't do that. I'm too soft for all of that”

Legit becomes the biggest prude when it comes to doing anything with you. Has no problem touching himself and telling you you can't touch cause he “couldn't handle it”

He takes taunts literal. “I could fuck myself better”, ok then he won't touch you at all for awhile. You got it. “You could do better”, you are completely right. As a matter fact, how about he practice on himself or using a toy and making you watch. Ya know, just to have a third party to inform him if he's doing well.

Just a real petty bitch in a cute package.

Probably needs the most breaks when it comes to a brat though cause sometimes he's fr not tryna hear that shit and just needs someone to be there. Which is fine.

I also imagine he’s possibly new to being a dom so this whole thing is trying shit out. He’s willing to experiment with different kind of punishments, rewards, schedules, all that shit.

When dealing with a brat Bi-Han is strict, Kuai Liang is patience and pettiness wrapped in one and Tomas is just petty

Looking back there’s no mention of male anatomy and it’s so short. Idk why dom characters make my brain short circuit. We will attempt dom characters at a later date but for now, this is all I got.

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alcorianight · 7 months ago

Text

I did not realize this got so long, so rambly word vomit under the cut

I do think more attention should be paid to the absolute horror Jason must have felt after coming out of the Lazarus pit like a foot taller and built like a damn fridge.

Like he died at 15, tiny, still small due to malnutrition and then the leading theory is that the Lazarus pit cures that and beefed him up. For one, that's gotta mess with his motor control a ton, especially when you consider that normal growth spurts cause a period of clumsiness (think jarring steps, toe stubbing, knocking your elbow on doorknobs or whatever), so a total body overhaul -Lazarus Edition™ - might be enough to keep him from even walking properly, let alone fight skillfully and gracefully.

Even if you say he got his coordination back from training or comic book science meant the pits didn't fuck that up, being small was probably a major part of his identity. Consider Jason before Bruce. He was tiny, but still resourceful and strong enough to jack tires. But being tiny was useful. Being tiny meant more hiding spaces were available. It meant he was unassuming. It meant people's eyes skipped over him. It meant avoiding attention. It meant safety.

And sure, Jason probably complained about being small when he was Robin. Probably even dreamed of being big as a street kid because being big meant having power, but being big on the streets meant being noticed and he knew that. It was something to dream about when he was older but not what he needed then.

I've also seen people headcanon that Jason is claustrophobic from the coffin, and I kinda vibe with that, and being bigger also screws with that because things feel so much bigger when you're small. If you think about it, elevators and the like probably felt a lot more spacious when you were a kid. So not only has his body been drastically changed without his consent (and I haven't really touched on that here, but also consider how it has to affect Jason Todd (who champions consent and autonomy and personal safety of the little guy) to have experienced nonconsensual body modification first hand like that) but it can actively cause him more mental distress.

And I think, coming out of the pit, the memory of his death still fresh in his mind, and stuck in the League of Assassins, maybe being small would have been comforting. He could still access all the same hiding places he would immediately clock. And while the image of a big man hiding somewhere clearly too small for him might be funny, it's also heart wrenching because he's lost so many safe places in a single moment.

Of course when Jason does go back to Gotham he's learned to use his new body and the fact that it makes him intimidating as hell, but I think there's another negative there as well. Because as Robin he comforted people. No Robin is ever soft but they are all almost definitely better at comforting victims than Batman (maybe not Damian, but he's a baby which is simultaneously more and less comforting) and a big part of that is because they're kids. Kids just aren't as intimidating as giant ass adults and I can imagine that this probably messed with Jason when he first got back to Gotham and tried to talk to the street kids or the working girls because those are groups of people who are going to be suspicious of men built like a goddamn fridge. He can't come up to them like he did as Robin, and I'm sure over time he's won their trust and they find him a symbol of safety, but the first few interactions have to hit hard because it feels like he doesn't belong in a place that's been his first home. That somehow he no longer fits right where he always did before.

I also can't imagine how disconcerting it must be to not recognize your reflection for like every part of yourself. Like, this one time I had makeup done for an event (not my idea) and it was so heavy that I didn't recognize myself and I felt so uncomfortable with that and that was just my face. My hair, my height, my build - all of that was still familiar, comfortable, but can you imagine being unable to recognize even that? And if he avoids mirrors to avoid seeing his reflection, he might not even be able to recognize himself in pictures and videos. (There's a fanfic with this idea and it definitely inspires this post because I honestly never considered this before and I thought it was so well written and such a good point that we don't pay enough attention to. You should totally check it out if you got this far.)

The last point I have for this post has to do with his relationship with Bruce. So typical timeline (I think) for Jason is he dies at 15, crawls out of his grave about 6 months later, is catatonic for 3 years, and then spends a year mentally present training with the League of Assassins on his world tour or whatever. I am fuzzy on the details here but basically from his birthday, Jason can't be older than 19-20 when he comes back to Gotham (I think 19 is the accepted age) but mentally he's 16 and for some fucking reason DC artists like to draw him like he's over 30. THIS IS A PROBLEM! Like this is an extremely fucked up 16 year old kid that should be trapped in a 19 year old's body but instead it's so much worse because (and I've seen someone describe him like this before) he's actually trapped inside the body of a 35 year old divorcee AND THAT IS NOT OKAY! Like even if we're gonna say that the Lazarus pit alters the body to peak physical health that would be like 22 or some shit. Past 30 is not a physical prime. You can be fit for sure at 30 but that doesn't change the fact that your ability to build muscle and heal and whatever else are probably better in your early to mid 20s and hey guess what that's still younger than Dick's accepted age (or maybe about the same (I have stayed up too late writing this to keep proper track of numbers)). But Jason looks older than Dick more often than not (the Gotham Knights game will never be forgiven for whatever the fuck happened to Jay's character design).

Okay sorry for the sidetrack, but Jason looking older is gonna fuck with Bruce because Bruce is gonna have a real hard time seeing his tiny, malnourished, never gonna top 5'4 Jaylad in this giant hulk of a figure, especially when the age is so off. Like imagine you have a kid who goes to college and does a ton of internships or research so you don't really see them for 4 years, you're still gonna expect your kid to look like they're 22-23. If they look like they're 35 you sure as hell are not gonna pinpoint that as your kid. So Bruce sees Jason and it makes sense that he doesn't think that's his kid BECAUSE THAT DOESN'T LOOK LIKE HIS KID! (I'm ignoring the moral differences in this post) So Bruce doesn't see a kid when he looks at Jason but Jason is mentally 16 and, despite everything he says to the contrary, he sees his dad when he looks at Bruce. Jason doesn't see an equal, someone who is just another adult. This is his dad, an authority figure in his life, someone whos opinions and words hold power over him whether he wants them to or not. But Bruce can't see that. Because Bruce doesn't see a kid. He doesn't see his son. He sees an equal and that's tragic because you're always supposed to be your parents' baby. Even when you're 50 with your own family and nearly adult kids, you're still gonna be your parents little baby. Because parents see their kids at all the ages they've ever been and it's the fact that Jason doesn't have someone who looks at him and sees him how he was when he was 2 and 7 and 10 and 13 and 15 when he still feels 16 that makes this so sad. Because no one's been his parent for long enough to really build that and Bruce can't see Robin!Jason in the Jason that came back.

Wow, uh, I'm really sorry to anyone who reads this. This really got away from me and it's super unorganized and I just kinda word vomitted all over this. This was just supposed to be about how his body was different. How did Bruce end up in this?

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lambtotheslaughterr · 8 months ago

Text

I Burn : Part Three

A Rafe Cameron Mini Series

[THIS STORY WILL CONTAIN THEMES OF NON-CON/DUB-CON, MENTAL-EMOTIONAL-PHYSICAL ABUSE, ETC. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK. 18+. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT]

WC: 4.3k

Dividers provided by @firefly-graphics

PART TWO | MASTERLIST | PART FOUR

Community service was a joke. The whole time you were pretty much frustrated. Working under the summer Virginian sun was not how you imagined spending your summer, but you also didn’t anticipate your parents having a mental breakdown & forcing you into an addiction facility. So, there you were, with your knees dirty from planting baby trees, the paint on your nails chipping from all the handiwork, & sweat building under your arms & between your thighs. You were at least relieved you chose to wear a skirt.

You were taking a break inside the community center, watching the rest in the garden through the ground to ceiling windows. Nurse Carney was all smiles as she worked alongside Albert to lay down soil over the freshly planted flower patches. Siena worked alongside Renee on the far end of the garden. The at-risk youth kids were all high school age. You had been assigned to work with two of them, their names already forgotten. They too quite clearly didn’t want to be there so working with them was quick since hardly anyone said a word. For that you were relieved.

You didn’t know how much longer was left of the service for today, but the clock on the wall over the door said it was nearly noon. You hoped you all would be back in the van & on your way back to the facility by then.

Just as you were leaning back in your chair, your neck resting on the back of the chair, you heard the doors to the center open, bringing with it a hot wave of air. You groaned internally.

Cracking an eye open, you suppressed your rage as Rafe came inside, his eyes set directly on you. You hated how fucking good he looked. He sported only a white tank top which was marked with sweat down the center of his chest & a pair of loose fitting cargo shorts. As he walked towards you, Rafe lifted his shirt to wipe at the sweat & grime on his face, shamelessly revealing the contours of his abdomen & the v-line at his hips. You squeezed your eyes closed & turned away.

“Don’t be shy.” Rafe huffed out, you could hear the smile in his tone, “Nothing you haven’t seen plenty of before, I bet.”

You wanted to ignore him, needed to ignore. Fortunately, the last couple hours you had hardly interacted with him, but you couldn’t deny feeling his eyes on you every now & then. You also couldn’t deny how your eyes would stray to him earlier as he was digging up holes for the trees, the muscles in forearms flexing & glistening with sweat under the sun. The image of those forearms wrapped around your body, tightening around you as he—

NO!

You stood up as if you had a bucket of ice water poured over you. Rafe watched you with amusement.

“You good?” No. You were not good.

“Fine.” You lied. As you made to pass him though, he held out his arm to block you from passing him. The feel of the palm of his hand against your hip was brief but the tingles from it lingered. You bit your lip to keep from breathing heavily. You glanced up at him through your lashes.

“Where ya going? We still got a few mins for a break.” His voice was low, even but suggestive.

“I’ve had enough of a break.” You responded, but even you could hear how much of a lie it was.

Rafe chuckled at that, using the same hand that stopped you to turn you around. Your hip burned where his hand touched. He led the two of you away from the windows towards the backside of the community center. On this side of the building was a small lawn before the vast Virginian forest. Rafe slid open the doors & gently guided you out. You reprimanded your body for following in his lead, for allowing you to go with him without putting up a fight. It’s not like you wanted to be alone with him! At least that’s what you kept telling yourself to keep the images at bay.

Rafe then closed the door behind the two of you as he led you to a bench near the tree line. You licked your lips, the salty taste of your sweat coating your tongue. You didn’t miss how Rafe watched your mouth. You were growing hotter than ever, more than just because of the summer sun.

“Here.” Rafe pulled out a cigarette, handing it to you.

You made a disgusted face, pushing his hand away, “No, thanks.”

“No?” Rafe smirked as he brought the cigarette to his lips. Your eyes lingered on the stick resting against his pink, plush lower lip. “Not what I expected.”

He lit the cigarette with a zippo, & you watched with slowed breath as a cloud of smoke billowed from between his lips & out of his nostrils. Fuck. He looked sexy. You blinked fast, looking away.

“Why?” You asked, needing to focus on anything that wasn’t him.

Rafe spoke around the cigarette hanging from his lips, “Just seemed the type.”

“The type of people who smoke that shit are gross. Poor hygiene.” You commented. You had never been drawn or curious about trying a cigarette yourself. You hated the smell. But you’d be lying to yourself if you weren’t drawn to those who did smoke. There was something desirable about the look.

“And you have good hygiene?”

You shot him a pointed look, “Of course. I shower twice a day & floss. That’s more than ninety percent of the human population can say.”

Rafe laughed lightly at that as he looked at you. His blue eyes stood out against his tanned skin. You could easily stare into them, lose yourself in them, look into them as he fucked you into your mattress. You winced, shaking your head to remove the thought from your head.

“What are you thinking about?”

He knew. You knew he knew, & he knew that you knew he knew. It was only a question to put on the spot.

You chuckled humorlessly, “Why won’t you leave me alone? Is this funny to you?”

Rafe’s eyes drifted to the top you wore before moving back up, “I think you’re hot.”

The confession surprised you, & left you shuddering all over.

“And only a little funny.” Rafe added as he leaned forward to look at you more, catching your eyes, “You get bothered easily. I like the look on your face when I tease you.”

You rolled your eyes. He was like an annoying little brother.

“Gets me hard.” Okay, absolutely nothing like a little brother.

You felt your eyes widen, muscles stiffen. Was he hard right now? Would it be obvious if you checked to see?

But as if he could hear your thoughts, Rafe brought his hand to yours, bringing it over the crotch of his shorts. A gasp left your lips as you felt the hard bulge there. When you meant to yank your arm away, Rafe secured his hold on your wrist, pressing the palm of your hand against his hardened cock.

“It fucking hurts.”

God, you knew what he meant. The walls of your pussy were clenching with need, hungry for him to stretch you out & fill you up. Your chest was heaving. Rafe leaned into you, his face near the side of your face as he spoke.

“Do you imagine me fucking you as much as I do?”

“Yes.” You breathlessly admitted as you squeezed your thighs together.

“You want me to fuck you, don’t you?” His question made your spine arch. He brushed your hair behind your shoulder, allowing him direct access to your neck. You felt his lips ghosting over the skin there.

“Tell me you want me to fuck you.”

You bit your lip, words failing you. You did, you needed him to. Right here would be fine. You didn’t care. You wanted him to fuck you against the bench, to feel his hands on your hips as he took your mercilessly.

You turned your face towards his, your mouths only separated by an inch. You finally opened your eyes, staring into his deep blue ones.

Then he started laughing. And it wasn’t the sexy kind of laughing. He was laughing at you.

“God, you’re fucking easy.” Rafe removed your hand from his crotch & stood up.

You were mortified, confused. He tossed the nearly finished cigarette onto the grass & snuffed it out with the heel of his shoe. Rafe smirked at you as you felt scrutinized under his judgmental gaze.

“Guess I was wrong.” Rafe said, “You do have a problem.”

Feeling humiliated enough as it was, you shot forward, sure to shoulder check him as you did & practically ran back inside. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes & you angrily wiped them away.

You were going to head back to the garden, tell Nurse Carney you weren’t feeling well, but before you could you ran into another person.

“Sorry.” You muttered, not even glancing at the person. But the sound of your name stopped you.

“Oh, my god. It is you.” You spun around & were further mortified by the person in front of you. She had been two grades above you in high school, but you were friends with her younger sister Courtney.

“What are you doing here?” Lucy asked. She had been known as a ‘mean girl’ in your high school, so you immediately knew that if she put two & two together then it’d only be a day before everyone in your hometown knew about your whereabouts.

“Court said you were abroad for the summer but uh…” She cocked her eyebrows knowingly, “this isn’t Europe.”

“Hey, Luce.” You returned, swallowing down your discomfort. Your parents had told your friends & family that you would be studying abroad, too ashamed to admit they were putting their daughter up in a loony bin. “What are you doing here?”

Lucy smirked proudly, “Volunteering for my senior thesis. You?”

But her question already had her answer as Rafe suddenly appeared, “We were working with the at-risk youth.”

Lucy jumped slightly at Rafe’s intrusion, but her surprise was quickly diminished when she noted how a cute guy was talking to her.

“Oh, you guys are from the Arrowhead Center?” Lucy’s eyes flashed to yours, “How interesting.”

Rafe swung an arm over your shoulders, pressing you into his chest, “We’re addicts.”

Having had enough, you shoved him away & left the two of them, uncaring of Lucy. It’d only be a matter of time before you heard from your parents. They would certainly blame you for getting caught. Now they’d just have to come up with more lies. Lies you wouldn’t be able to keep up with.

Back outside, you stormed up to Nurse Carney as she picked out flowers from their plastic pots to put into the ground.

“I don’t feel good.” You forced out, “Heat.”

She frowned, “You don’t look good. Well, alright.” She offered a sympathetic smile, reaching into her jean shorts pocket to hand you the keys, “Go sit in the van with A/C. We’re just about finished here.”

You snatched the keys from her, mumbled a ‘thanks’, then marched towards the parking lot. You were tempted to steal the van, drive away from the embarrassment of today, but knew your parents would only make it worse. You had to be tougher, stronger. And the only way to get there would be to avoid Rafe at all costs the rest of your stay at the facility. The task was challenging, & it’d be the first time you made it your goal to avoid a guy, but if you were anything when it came to something you wanted, you were determined. Today would be the last time Rafe got the best of you.

The rest of the week passed by in a blur. Even seeing Dr. Mooney again & your daily one-on-one sessions evaded your memory. You felt like your body had completely shut down, your mind with it. The humiliation you had faced last week had completely numbed you. Rafe had tried picking on you some more, but you hadn’t responded to any of his teasing. It was the only time you felt even a little bit good, was knowing that Rafe was getting frustrated that you were no longer taking his baiting. A win was a win, you reminded yourself.

Now it was Friday. And you were looking forward to holing up in your room. Your burning urges had happened only a few times since the day at the community service, but not enough for you to act on them. Dr. Mooney had been evidently disappointed in the fact that you only had one entry in your journal—not that he was reading it—but he was pleased to hear that you hadn’t masturbated all week. You were too angry to, but you didn’t share that.

And tomorrow wouldn’t help. Saturday was going to be a family day. Your parents would be coming to see you. You had been at the facility for a little under a month, & once a month the center has a family visitation day. Others in your group were looking forward to seeing their loved ones. Albert wouldn’t shut up about seeing his boyfriend. But you couldn’t join in on their excitement. In fact, you loathed seeing your parents again.

You hadn’t heard from them since your run-in with Lucy, so you imagined they were saving their reprimand for when they saw you in person tomorrow. Joy.

Currently, you were lying on your bed in your room with the door cracked. You were staring aimlessly at your ceiling when you saw a figure appear in the crack of your door.

“Hey.” It was Albert. His usual luscious curly hair was tied into a low bun, “We got trash duty tonight. Did you forget?”

You groaned outwardly. Albert smiled at that, clearly feeling the same, “If we do it quickly we’ll be done in no time.”

Chores before bed was typical. You just loathed trash day. It meant everyone got paired up to go around the facility & gather trash to take it out to the dumpsters. A method to teach responsibility. But if you were taking out the trash, you only wished you could stuff Rafe into one of those black bags & deposit him in the filthiest corner of the garbage room.

You swung your legs off the bed & slipped into a pair of your slippers. Fortunately, you were already dressed for bed. So, as soon as trash duty was done you could head back to your room & go right to bed.

Following Albert out into the common area, you joined the others & Nurse Carney near the ping-pong table. You ignored the smirk on Rafe’s face when you appeared, choosing to stand on the other side of Albert away from him.

“Good evening, guys.” Nurse Carney greeted, “You know the drill so no messing about. I expect to see everyone back here in thirty minutes. Siena, Renee, you two will work the east wing with me, and the three of you,” she waved her hand over you, Albert, & Rafe, “will take the west wing. Thirty minutes, let’s go.”

Everyone slipped on some latex gloves before each grabbing a box of trash bags to reline the garbage’s. Albert led the way out of the youth wing, which was on the east side of the building, & towards the west side. You stayed close to him, feeling Rafe’s eyes burning a hole in the center of your back as he walked behind you.

Once in the west wing, Albert offered taking the largest—& often grossest room—the indoor gym. Trash duty in the gym meant not only changing out garbage’s but also gathering the towels used the last couple days. But as grateful as you were for him taking on the most dreadful part of the task, it meant you were alone with Rafe.

It was fine at first. Surprisingly. The two of you went in & out of rooms on either side of the hallway, gathering the filled trash bags & tossing them into a bin on wheels that you rolled down the hallway with you. Rafe said nothing, even though you could sense how badly he wanted to. And you said nothing either, didn’t even bother looking in his general direction. But you knew it was too good to be true to think you could finish trash duty without any bullshit from him.

When the two of you neared the rooms at the end of the hall, furthest away from any potential lingering eyes, you felt a sudden heat at your back before your body was being pushed into a small & narrow closet.

It was dark in the closet, save for the crack in the door that allowed a little light to stream in. Rafe gently pushed you up against a wall of shelves, his hips pressed against yours. The burning returned immediately, but you fought hard against the feelings, resolving yourself to not fall into another one of Rafe’s traps.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” He seethed. Even in the dark you could make out the heated look in his glare.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You feigned, resisting against him as you attempted to push him off you. “Get off of me.”

“You sure you want me to let you go?” He questioned. And you knew he intended for it to sound teasing, but even he couldn’t hide the frustration he was feeling thanks to your non-responsive attitude towards his taunts all week.

“Yes.” You swiped his arms away from you, “You disgust me.”

When you made to move away from him & out of the closet, he stepped in front of you, effectively cutting you off from your only escape route, “You’re lying. We both know it.”

“No, Rafe.” You glared at him in the dark, “I’m not. You humiliated me. I’m just a joke to you. There’s nothing desirable about that. Just me alone, okay.”

The second time you tried to move, Rafe grabbed your harshly, shoving you backwards into the shelving, jostling the items there. You gasped, gaping at him. But what you hated most in that moment was how your skin was erupting with those familiar goosebumps.

“I won’t leave you alone.” Rafe seethed, “For as long as I’m here I will never leave you alone. And it’s about time you realize that.”

Before you could argue with him, his mouth descended over yours. You whined into the kiss, both shocked & horrified that he was actually kissing you. Rafe brought a hand to the back of your neck, angling your face so he could have better access as he bit & licked at your lips. Your body was aflame. As much as your mind didn’t want this, your body was desperate for it. It had been too long, much too fucking long since anyone had touched you with want. Even your distaste towards Rafe flew out the window.

A gasp left you when you felt one of Rafe’s hands slip into the front of your leggings. Rafe stopped kissing you, pulling away just enough to see the look of euphoria on your face as his fingers found your clit.

“Rafe.” You gripped his wrist that was in your pants, “No.”

“Yes.” He replied lowly, planting a lazy kiss on your open mouth. You felt your hips arch into his touch, desperate for more. As he circled your bundle of nerves, you felt his index & middle finger slip towards your slick entrance. A whine erupted from you. Your pussy was dripping. Fuck, how long had it even been? His touch was leaving a puddle in your underwear.

Rafe pushed his fingers into you & began pumping them. You clung to him, fingers digging into the muscles of his shoulder as he fingered you. Your moans grew louder, enough to draw attention, so Rafe clapped a hand over your mouth.

His lips left a wake of wet, searing hot kisses along your collarbone. As he kissed along the contours of your chest, you felt the smile on his face. You shared the same smile behind the palm of his hand. God, it felt good. So good. It’s like he knew how to play your body better than you ever did.

Suddenly, the closet flooded with light. A disappointed moan left you as Rafe’s touch & body was removed from you.

You felt dizzy & couldn’t comprehend what exactly was happening as Rafe turned towards the now fully open closet door. In your peripheral, you saw that Albert was staring wide-eyed at the two of you.

“You fuckin’ mind?” Rafe spit out.

As you caught your breath, which you would never truly catch until Rafe could finish making you cum, you noticed how Albert gave Rafe a heated, angry glare.

“Get the fuck out.” Albert demanded, kicking back the bin behind him to make room, “Now.”

“Fuck you, man. Mind your business.”

Albert’s nostrils flared & you finally moved, although slowly. Your muscles tense.

“This is my business.” Albert then reached past Rafe & yanked on your arm, pulling you out from the closet. When Rafe made to grab you, Albert stood between the two of you. He was taller than Rafe & was fearless as he stood up against him, “You leave her the fuck alone, creep. I catch you cornering her again & I will report you.”

With that, Albert tugged you down the hallway.

Your mind had cleared at this point, & you glanced over your shoulder to Rafe who now stood at the end of the hallway. He was quite clearly pissed off, his chest heaving.

“What the fuck, Albert?” You ripped your arm out of his grip as you stomped ahead of him.

“I should be saying the same thing to you. What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“You don’t get to interrogate me!” You raised your voice, stopping in the hallway to glare him down, “You’re not my mom, you’re not my doctor, you’re not even a fucking friend. So mind your own fucking business.”

You continued on ahead, wanting nothing more than to get back to your room & finish what Rafe started but Albert cut you off.

“You wanna fuck up your treatment, fine.” Albert shook his head, “And since I’m not a friend I guess you won’t mind me telling Nurse Carney what I just caught you & that fucking loser doing.”

The threat immediately changed your mood & you chased after Albert, “No, wait, I’m sorry, okay?”

Albert stopped to look at you, unimpressed by your antics.

“I don’t know what just happened. But it won’t happen again.”

Albert stared at you for some time before frowning, “Did he force you?”

“What?” You replied, shocked at the implication, “No. He didn’t. It was… I wanted it. I wanted to.”

He sighed, glancing back down the hallway but you two had made a curve at this point so Rafe was not in view.

“We’re all here for the same reason, _____.” He began, “To better ourselves, to overcome our addictions.”

You pressed your lips together.

“And you’re right. I’m not your mom or your doctor. But believe it or not, I am a friend. And I wish I had a friend on the outside to keep me in line with my recovery. So, please, just take my advice. Avoid him. At least, for now. I can’t tell you what to do, but it’ll be better for you in the long run if you just give it a chance. Okay?”

You felt like a child, having to bite your tongue, but with your parents coming tomorrow you couldn’t risk bringing more attention to yourself than your run-in with Lucy already would. So you nodded, feigning belief in Albert’s words.

“Okay. I’ll stay away from him.”

It was the middle of the night & you were restless. You had tried finishing what Rafe started but your touch was nothing compared to his. It was tempting to sneak down the hallway to his room, but the cameras in the common area were motion censored. You’d be caught before you even made it to his door. So, all you could do was lie there in horny frustration.

But maybe a cold shower would help. There was no rule against going to the bathrooms in the middle of the night. Gathering your bathroom kit, you tossed your towel over your shoulder & crept into the hallway. The bathrooms were at the very end of the hallway, & you’d have to pass by Rafe’s door to get there. Though there were cameras, maybe just maybe, he was awake too & would hear you.

He wouldn’t be able to follow you out, that’d draw too much suspicion & attention, but he’d know you were there, awake & restless because of him. But just as you were passing by his door, you halted in your steps. You strained your ears, wondering if you heard right. Inching just a bit closer to his door, you finally heard it. Breathy moans.

Your thighs shook with need. Rafe was moaning, grunting, breathing heavily. All the audio you only dreamt about hearing. You licked your lips, your eyes fluttering as you pictured him just on the other side of the door with his cock hard & sprung, fisting it in his hand as he got himself off. If it wasn’t for the cameras, you’d rest against his door & get off with him, without him knowing. You just needed to cum with him.

And then, like hearing the most beautiful piece of music created just for you, Rafe said one word mixed within the breathiness of his moans.

It was your name on his lips.

part three! gonna try to update this series & the Rise series as much as i can in the next 2 weeks before i start my new jobs.

as always, please share your thoughts w me! comments, reblogs w reviews, & asks are the bees knees.

thank you for reading!

beau<3

Requests are currently CLOSED.

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catboyfics · 1 year ago

Text

Ghost of a Memory [part I]

I have finished part 1! This is more of an introductory chapter, and is much shorter than the others will be. Once I have part 2 finished, it will be posted. I will keep the same taglist, unless you ask me to remove you. I will also add people onto the taglist for the next part, just leave a comment :>

𝑴𝑨𝑺𝑻𝑬𝑹𝑳𝑰𝑺𝑻

𝑭𝑨𝑵𝑫𝑶𝑴: COD

𝑷𝑨𝑰𝑹𝑰𝑵𝑮: Ghost x m!reader

𝑮𝑬𝑵𝑹𝑬 & 𝑾𝑨𝑹𝑵𝑰𝑵𝑮𝑺: hurt/comfort; male reader; violence, guns, death (not in this part), allusions to torture,

𝑾𝑶𝑹𝑫𝑺: 1.7k

You could feel the quick rotations of the helicopter blades as you flew over the English countryside, bringing you to your new base. You were hardly expecting to stay long, you had a poor track record with that ever since you had become a soldier. Few places but the SAS would willingly take you because of your aggressive and destructive fighting style. Really, it was a miracle you were still a part of the army, and had even managed to stay in the special forces.

You’d used to be a part of the SRR – they did all of the reconnaissance and it was work that fit you well – but you ended up being transferred to the SAS after ‘The Incident’, at your request. Regaining your footing after all that had happened was… difficult, but you managed. You always managed.

You had been transferred to 19 Troop, specializing in mountain operations. You were usually away, helping international troops with their own missions. You spent a good amount of your time in Russia and Canada, before you were abruptly called back at the end of your mission. As soon as the helicopter had touched back down on the ground, you were sent to your Captain’s office. You knew your captain quite well as you saw him quite often.

“(l/n).” He called out seriously, looking at you with disappointment. You were a bit worried for a moment. Was this finally the point that the Special Forces would boot you out? You snapped out of your thoughts when he spoke again. “An international task force has heard about your skills and is looking to recruit you.”

That was… surprising. Your captain could clearly tell, because he took one look at you and spoke again. “I’ll give you until after dinner to think about it. It’s relatively urgent.”

You nodded strictly, saluting to him before turning and leaving the room. It wasn’t the first time you had been invited to join an international force, but they very rarely kept you around. Said you were too much of a liability. You wondered if it was even worth the effort. You were happy enough with what you were doing in 19 Troop, and the SAS was good to you. Then again, there wasn’t really anywhere to go from there if you wanted to stay on the field. You could become an officer, but that would defeat the point of you joining the SAS.

You didn’t want to think about it too hard, though. You did still have until dinner, and you wanted to make good use of that time. Your exit from Canada had been abrupt and disruptive. You weren’t exactly in the middle of an operation with the crew, but you were starting to plan for one. You had been a vital part of their plans, and you felt guilty for leaving them with an empty space. You hoped what you had trained them would help them through it, though you knew the Canadian Special Forces would be able to manage.

You took your time sorting through the belongings you had brought back, taking care to choose what you really needed to keep. You had spent more time with the Canadian soldiers than you thought you would, and they made a good impression on you. As much as you hated to admit it, you would miss them. You weren’t one for sentimentality, though, not after what had happened what seemed like so long ago.

You were snapped out of your memories when you felt the helicopter starting to descend. This was it, then. You mentally steeled yourself to meet your new team, a team you would only end up leaving after they remove you.

It was still a bit of a wait after the helicopter started its descent and eventually landed, though, and you had some time to yourself. You hated when that happened. It always led to thoughts about what happened that night. That night, you had seen unforgivable horrors. Atrocities, carnal sin. It made you want to purge the world of that evil yourself.

You ripped yourself from your thoughts, tearing a hole in the horrible memories before you were consumed entirely by them. It was a fight to get yourself back into service after what happened. Lucky you were a good actor.

You forced yourself to think of the only thing that could distract you from your memories: something worse. The force you were joining was infamous, though very little information was released about it. Task Force 141. You felt sweat gather in your palms as the helicopter approached their main base. You didn’t think you were particularly special yourself, and you wondered why you had been picked to join some of the best special OPs in the world. Apparently there was another SAS operative, maybe you'd be able to get along with him.

You sucked in a breath as the helicopter landed on the soft pad, grabbing the duffel bag you’d brought with you and standing up from the seat. It wasn’t a very comfortable seat, and your legs rejoiced to finally get up after the two-something-hours that you’d been sitting down.

The doors on the sides of the helicopter opened and you let yourself fall out, comfortably landing on your feet. You’d gotten very used to getting out of the helicopters easily, and the motion had become very slick. You still carried yourself like an SRR operative, despite your transfer. It was a habit you’d never broken.

As you walked towards the large concrete building, you saw a man standing there. You figured he was the captain of the task force. If you remembered correctly, he was called Captain Price. You switched your trajectory to him, walking with firm steps as you breezed through the air.

As you approached him, you stopped stiffly and saluted. In a loud voice, you announced “Sergeant (l/n), sir!”

You heard the man chuckle, and you almost felt self conscious until he spoke casually. “At ease, soldier. I’m Captain Price, I’m the captain of Task Force 141.” He announced, speaking in a calm voice. “I’m the one who requested you be transferred here. Thank you for coming.”

You nodded, letting your hand fall from its position at your forehead. You looked around, expecting to see some of your superior officers and other soldiers, but there was no one there. You frowned, wondering why, and the captain seemed to pick up on your confusion.

“I wanted to go over a few of the things in your file. Privately.” He said firmly, looking you in the eye before smiling gently. Those words sent chills down your spine. You didn’t want to have to act more, but it seemed you would have no choice, so you just nodded agreeably as he turned around and started to walk to the building beside you.

You made your way through the twisting halls of the base, looking at the room numbers, though they didn’t suggest much. You had passed by a few busy gyms, and a canteen. It seemed surprisingly busy for a task force. Busier than you were used to. You weren’t a huge fan of working in large teams.

You were eventually brought to a large meeting room with a table and a plethora of empty chairs. At one end of the table, there was a large screen. You took a seat, having another look around the room but finding nothing of note. Finally, the captain spoke up. You had been preparing for this.

“So, soldier, I want to make sure that you’re the right fit for this team. I don’t want any disasters happening because of your trauma.” He said sternly, getting straight into it. At least he didn’t bother with small talk.

“You don’t need to worry about that.” You said coldly, looking him in the eye as you answered. “I’ve already had a psychological evaluation done by a psychiatrist, and she said I was fine to go back out in the field.”

Price shot back almost immediately, like he had dealt with others like you. Maybe this team wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows.

“That doesn’t mean you’re fine to go back out into this field. I’m sure you’ve been briefed on what Task Force 141 covers.”

“I have, and it’s nothing I’ve not done before.” You explained coldly, going back through the motions. It had been a while since you had to put on this act. Before Price could get another word in, you spoke up.

“Trust me, Captain. A little bit of torture isn’t gonna do much to an agent of the SRR. I’ve been trained for much worse.”

The man looked like he wanted to fight back, say something to make you break, but you were completely right. SRR operatives had the most interrogation training out of all the other corps in the British Armed Forces.

“Alright. If you say so. If you’re struggling, though, there’s another guy who’s been through the same thing as you. He can help you.” The man said, though you couldn’t tell if it was more for his own peace of mind or yours. You only scoffed.

“I’ll be sure to stay away from him, then.” You mumbled, rolling your eyes when the captain looked at you with confusion. “People who have been through that aren’t usually very fun to be around. And anyways, no one can help me except for the Rileys, and they’re all dead.”

That shocked Price. He knew Simon Riley was famous as a cold blooded murderer, but as someone who offered help? He almost wanted to say you were too far gone then and there, but there was an edge to your voice he’d rarely seen before.

You didn’t want to stay much longer. The room was plain and the conversation brought up bad memories. You were great at hiding things, but not so much hiding from things. That’s why, instead of hiding from your past, you were hunting its ghosts. Hunting for the last traces of that damned Riley family. Hunting for salvation.

Salvation came at a great price. A price that had already been long since paid.

@imasimpsowhat06

Here is Part II

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@cptg00s3

@redactahoe

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